After the Fall
by Moonchild707
Summary: Hunted and alone, Bella takes fate into her own hands when she leaps from the cliffs in La Push. When Alice watches her fall, it sets in motion in a chain of events that brings a broken family to the brink of destruction. Faced with the consequences of their choices, the Cullens return to Forks to reclaim the daughter they left behind. New Moon AU, no wolves, canon pairings.
1. Prologue: Before the Fall

**A/N: See the end for a few notes.**

**Prologue - Before the Fall**

Darkness hung like a shroud in the small, sterile room, the silence of the great house like a tomb in its stillness. There was no movement— not a shuffle, not a peep… hardly a breath to mark the passage of time, and yet she could see the movement of the sun on its celestial course in the world beyond, so far out of her reach that it hardly warranted a passing thought. She could feel the fluctuating warmth on her skin, each beam moving like fire to scorch the frigid flesh of her bare feet, which glittered faintly in the shrouded light. Her eyes were closed— she dare not open them to face the day— and she searched, hunting in the recesses of her mind for something, _anything,_ do away with her nerves.

Beside her, as still and silent as the grave, her husband waited, his hands clenched in tight fists against the floor. He was patient with her— he always was— and he neither spoke nor moved, but she could_ feel_ the anxiety rolling off if him like steam. He did not project it as he might have with the others, but she could feel it nonetheless, running like a cable from his heart to hers. It was the way of things. The way of their kind. She knew his heart as deeply as she knew her own, and so even when the fog of worry clouded the mirror of her sight, she did not begrudge him and she sighed, the echo carrying well beyond the confines of their dark, cold bedroom. Her eyes snapped open, blinking to clear the mist, and he took her, softly, into the safety of his arms.

"I wish you wouldn't," whispered Jasper, his voice muffled in her hair. "There's nothing left to see, love."

Alice, mutinous and furious, said nothing.

"Does it hurt you? Your head?"

Alice only frowned. Jasper, sensing her irritation and impatience, rose quickly his feet, his footsteps all but silent against the smooth wood of the floor. He padded to the window, his fingers resting on the sill, and before Alice could prevent it he twitched the curtains apart, banishing the blackness and bringing the room into glorious, brilliant light.

She hissed and turned her face away. Jasper only stared, his features hard and morose, as she leapt to her feet.

"I wish you _wouldn't," _he repeated. Alice fought back the sting, her fingers pressed to her temples. "I really, _really_ wish you wouldn't…" His hand was extended, as if he would touch her, but Alice backed away, her face awash with irritation.

She was out of the room before he could reach her.

* * *

In the shadowed recess beneath the staircase, Alice let herself sink back into the quiet and the still. The world was not so silent here— her ears, so attuned to the usual sounds of the house and its occupants, were not able to filter out the noise outside the confines of her bedroom. Her eyes were shut— she did not need them to see what she was looking for— but her hearing could not be so easily disabled and as she hunted, she let her ears run amok.

In the living room, by the tall, untinted windows, she could hear her brother pacing. Emmett had always surprised Alice. He was by far the largest and strongest member of their coven, his sheer size making him formidable and dangerous, but he was stealthy too, and quick. He did not lumber, did not stumble, and she felthis movements just as strongly as she heard them, his weight shifting from foot to foot, disturbing the floorboards.

Emmett, like Jasper, had watched Alice scarper to the corner, but had said nothing as he fixed his eyes on her, his face as unreadable as stone. She did not have her husband's gift— she could not tell for sure whether he was upset or curious or sad— but there was an odd, unhappy glint in his onyx eyes that spoke louder than his words ever could.

Alice did not linger on that— she knew that her moods bothered him and that her silence, so unnatural and aggrieved, hurt him.

Emmett, for all his teasing, did not enjoy conflict.

Alice let her ears wander to the other parts of the house.

Upstairs in his office, she could hear Carlisle's flowing, rhythmic scratching of pen on paper. Farther still, in the confines of the yard outside, she could hear Esme tearing up the weeds that'd had audacity to crop up in her immaculate, manicured garden. Jasper had retreated back to their bedroom, no doubt brooding over her furious rejection, and Rosalie, out of range, had left to hunt after the blowout with Emmett that morning and had yet to return.

Squinting into the blackness of her own mind, Alice did not let her thoughts drift to her _other_ brother, whose name she would not utter and whose face she did not want to see. That brother who, by all accounts, was the cause of their strife and the root of her own personal hell, in which she was now imprisoned.

A hell which, no matter how she struggled, left her blind, because no matter how hard she looked, or how desperately she sought, she could not see the one fate she longed to find. Though the struggle had consumed her for nigh on half a year, that fate was as elusive as a moonbeam, untouchable and cold.

Alice squeezed her eyes shut all the harder, throwing herself into the wild unknown, sifting impatiently through those visions that could not answer her questions.

For those questions, and so many others that had not yet solidified in the wide expanse of her mind, were tossed around the murky waters of her thoughts like a rowboat in a storm. She was flooded again and again by the consuming mire of her memory, and though she grappled wildly for a life preserver, she felt herself sinking lower, and lower still.

When the sea became too deep— when she could feel its crushing weight on her like an anvil— her eyes flashed open with a snarl of furious disappointment and Emmett, his meticulous pacing interrupted, paused to watch her.

When she saw the angry worry in his scrupulous, ebony gaze, lasting only a moment before he turned away from her, she let out her breath in a rush.

"Don't strain yourself," he said softly, after a long moment of pause. "Don't stress, Alice. It won't do any good."

She was on her feet in an instant, her head still throbbing.

"I _know."_

Emmett did not answer back.

_Six months,_ Alice thought. _Six months of this nonsense, and what had they to show for it?_

The hollow ache in her head spread downwards, taking over her chest, her abdomen. Alice did not remember her human feelings— she did not know what it was to grieve, or to cry. She had felt anger before— her fury and temper rising to strike like a snake in the grass— but there was nothing in her frame of reference for this terrible, empty _sadness _which had taken her like a bandit.

She was sure, though she tried to school it, that she wore her grief like an old coat. She knew it when Emmett frowned, his bubbling temper melting to sorrow in an instant as he reached out a hand to her. Alice did not take it— indeed, she did not even reach out— and he left it there for only a moment before turned back towards the glass in defeat.

Alice only brooded, feeling harassed and sulky, before she sat back down and rested her cheek on her knees.

Six months. They had lived this way for almost _six months. _Six months of strife, and six months of _waiting._

Waiting, she knew, for a day that might never come.

_Six months,_ she thought again, _since the Incident._

The Incident. That was the name she'd given to that day last fall, when the world they had so carefully crafted came crashing down around them like a house of cards. Pieces, falling one by one into oblivion, until there was hardly anything left but wreckage. Pieces which, try though she might, Alice could not even _find,_ much less repair. Pieces she feared had been lost to them forever— floating away like dandelion fluff, or vanishing into the ether with the early morning mist.

The destruction had split her family apart, had stretched them thin like an old, worn shirt.

It was for this Incident that Alice felt such an overwhelming, soul-crushing guilt. She scowled when she felt it eating its way up her back like a parasite, tamping it down with a reckless and furious temper. She felt its sting— the same sharp pain that always came when she was confronted with her own ineptitude— but she did not let it master her and forced it down to the very soles of her feet, where it lingered, hissing, waiting for another moment to strike. Alice mollified herself with another quick glimpse, futile and unwavering, into the dark, unknowable future.

She looked again, one last time, for the young, familiar face in the endless march of time. Her freckled cheeks. The rich warmth of her eyes. Her slender limbs, her fragrant smell… hell, even her stumbling gait and ruby-red blush. Anything to assure her that the girl was still breathing, and that the world was still moving.

But even as she winced, the effort bringing her nagging headache to the forefront, she could see nothing but obscurity— blackness swirling with grey mist, as intangible and meaningless as a cloud.

She came back with a sigh.

"We promised," said a voice from the staircase. Alice glanced over, her face shielded by shadow, and Emmett stopped to stare. There was no anger in that voice— no undertones of disapproval or displeasure— but the words made Alice's temper flare once again and she stood, her eyes narrowed.

"And so did _he,"_ she bit out. Carlisle, his pale face a mask, said nothing. "He made promises too, Carlisle, and yet here we are."

"It's his decision."

Alice hissed, her face mutinous.

"It _was,"_ she returned. Emmett, silent as the grave, could only watch. "It _was_, Carlisle. But no longer."

With a sigh that might have moved mountains, Alice saw his defeat.

"She's _his…"_

This time, it was Emmett who bristled.

"She belongs to no one," he growled out, and Alice felt a shiver course down her spine. Her brother was cold, icy in his outrage, and Carlisle had the good grace to look chastised.

"I don't mean it that way…"

At once, Alice felt the air shift.

From out in the garden, she saw Esme's quick return. Jasper glided down the staircase, his eyes downcast. And from the trees, as if she'd been summoned, Alice saw her sister make her way to the front door, slamming it so hard against the jamb that it cut through the drywall like butter. Esme flinched at the crack, her lips pursed in disapproval, but when Rosalie came in, blinking in surprise, there was no rebuke.

Carlisle, his head down and his eyes shut, looked up only when he spoke.

"What have you seen?"

"Nothing," Alice said quickly. "Absolutely _nothing_. It's driving me mad."

At once, she felt Jasper stiffen.

"Nothing?" said Carlisle. "Nothing at _all?"_

Alice pursed her lips.

"Darkness," she said softly. "Grey mist. _Lots_ of mist… I've never seen anything to equal it. I don't know what it_ means."_

Only Rosalie, her lip curled in distaste, dared make a sound. One look from Emmett quelled her, his face as stormy as a hurricane, but the damage was done and Alice felt her temper writhe. Alice's rumbling growl set everyone on edge and, feeling her tenuous control strained, she was glad that there was no answer from her scowling sister, or anyone else.

When the silence grew long, she spoke again.

"I want to go and check," she said, and at once, the room was hushed. "I want to go and see— just to _look,_ Carlisle."

Their father heaved another sigh.

"He will be _furious,"_ he warned, "if he finds out. I can't stop you, Alice, but I beg you… think before you do."

Her laughter, sweet, even through her ire, held no humour.

"He abandoned this family," she said lowly. "He abandoned _her."_

She felt Jasper shift, uncomfortable and nervous.

"You know what we are, Carlisle. And you know what that _means."_

Her father only stared, his melancholy gaze inscrutable and soft.

"You _all_ know what it means."

Rosalie hissed, spiteful and angry.

"You would destroy us again?" she snapped, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. "You would ruin us _again,_ Alice?"

Alice wheeled around at once.

"You know what we are," she said again, and this time, the edge was biting. "You _know_ what it means for us… for _all_ of us. You know what _she_ means."

Rosalie laughed, all venom and spite.

"To _you_, maybe," she conceded. "And most definitely to _him, _but what about the rest of us? What about _us,_ Alice, your _family?"_

Emmett, bone-white and furious, took a step away from his mate. His words were as sharp as Alice had ever heard them, and they cut like knives.

"_She_ is family, too, Rosalie."

"Leave that child be," said Rose, ignoring Emmett's anger. "Leave her alone, and let her live her life."

"I only want to _look…"_

"I vote yes," said Jasper at her back and at once, all eyes shifted. Jasper was not looking at them— he had his gaze glued on his wife, on the intangible misery that rolled from her like a bad perfume.

"Yes," said Emmett at once, ignoring his wife's angry hiss. "I say yes, Alice."

Her temper began to recede.

"Yes," said Esme, her hand reaching out for Carlisle's. "Yes… I would go with you, if I thought it would do any good."

Alice did not need Jasper's gift to hear her doubt. Rosalie wheeled around, her back to them.

"No."

"Carlisle?"

"Do what you think is right," said her father, his face unreadable. "But mind the consequences, Alice…"

"I'm not afraid of _him,"_ she returned at once. "He lost the right to choose for her the minute he left."

_The minute he broke my heart,_ Alice thought, looking around at the five unhappy faces of her family. Her fractured family. _The minute he broke _us.

And with the decision made, it came as if in a dream, so vivid and sharp that it stopped her dead. The mist fell away, the blackness lightened to a shifting, writhing grey, and she saw, with her eyes closed, a scene unfolding in rapid progression. It hit with the force of a train, barreling headlong down the tracks without its brakes, and without the usual, gentle transition from the present to the future, Alice was suddenly immersed in a vision so clear she could taste the sea salt and brine on her lips.

She could not feel Jasper's arms, holding her steady.

_Wind billowed and rocked the trees at the edge of the sea. She stood on pebbled sand, her feet drenched in the swelling surf, as she stared out at the churning charcoal of ocean waves, white-capped and frothing. The wind was cold, though it did not bother her, and the sea spray flattened her hair against her scalp, but she took in the scene with vivid swiftness, her perfect vision unmarred by the pelting, icy rain._

_She did not recognize the exact spot, though she thought she recognized the water. The springtime Pacific was uncommonly rough, its great, black swell clawing angrily at the jutting rock cliffs. The beach was narrow— there was only the smallest strip of sand at the very edge of the grass before it transformed into smooth, round pebbles, strewn liberally with driftwood and bonfire ash. Out to sea, there were small islands— close enough for her to make out the rocks and trees, but too far to see anything moving, or living._

_Alice heard the muffled concern of her family, dull beneath the roar of the waves, and in another moment she froze._

_High atop a cliff, nearly one hundred feet above the reckless waves, there stood a figure. Had she been human, Alice suspected that she would not have been able to make out the details of that person swaying dangerously near the edge of the rocks. But Alice was _not_ human, and she saw the girl with horrible clarity. She saw the tears coursing down her white cheeks to mingle with the rain. She smelled the flora of her blood, rushing angrily, almost _defiantly_, through her arteries and veins. She heard the thumping of her heart, faint over the thunder, and she heard the crying— the loud, hiccuping sobs that made her whole body shake._

_Alice had never seen that look on her face before— such abject, unbreakable sorrow, mingled with a terror so strong that Alice could almost taste it, like metal on her tongue._

"_Bella…"_

_The girl began to weep._

"_I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"_

_The hoarse voice repeated the words like a mantra. _

"_I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry…"_

_Alice screamed when she saw the girl lean forward, and she ran, futile though it was, into the crashing ocean waves. She watched the scene as if in slow motion— the girl's bent knees, her mottled, terrified face, and the tearful apology, not yet faded from her lips, as she released her stance and fell, tumbling head-first towards the earth, her body curling and flinching before it found its mark. She hit the water with a startling force, crashing hard enough to knock the breath from her chest, and in a fraction of a second Alice saw her sink, disappearing beneath the angry, black waves._

_Her watch read 3:02._

She came back with a gasp, her knees on the floor as she wrapped her arms around Jasper's legs. She felt his terror— felt the absolute, reckless fear that rolled off of him in currents— but as her dead heart constricted, squeezing so hard she thought it might kill her, she felt a torrent of grief so strong that she wept, great, tearless sobs of misery, and could not bring herself to stand.

"Oh no… oh no. No. No, no, no…"

She felt Jasper shake her, but still, she remained. She heard the bustle around her— Emmett's furious helplessness, Esme's worried whisper, Carlisle, questioning Jasper and prying her away…

"What time is it?"

"Five minutes to three."

"Oh God…"

Jasper hauled her up, his arms encasing her in a cage of steel.

"What did you see?" he demanded, ignoring her feeble attempts to free herself. "Tell me, Alice. What's wrong?"

When she slid away, her eyes fixed frantically on Carlisle, she felt her throat tighten.

"We're too late," she said miserably, and this time, she saw dawning comprehension on Carlisle's face. "We're going to be too late."

"What happened, Alice?"

The words came like fire, catching and quick.

"She jumped," Alice said miserably, and she heard Esme's quick gasp as the meaning took hold. "At 3:02. She's going to jump."

"Jump?"

"Oh no… Alice, no."

Her mother— eyes wide and terrified— looked as if she might be sick, though in truth, there was no possibility of it. Esme gripped Carlisle's arm like a vice, her fingers squeezing reflexively as the news took hold in first one second, and then two, before she wheeled around to the ticking clock on the mantle with a furious desperation.

2:58.

"Where, Alice?" she demanded, and at once, she was at the door. "Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"How high?"

Alice felt her face crumple.

"Too high, Esme," she said pitifully. She saw Emmett's eyes pinch shut, his fists clenched. "Far too high…"

"No. Carlisle?" Esme turned towards him, frantic. When he did not look at her, her face fell.

"No..."

"Are you positive, Alice?" he asked. "_Absolutely_ positive?"

It was Jasper, his face pinched with the onslaught of her misery, who answered for her.

"Absolutely, Carlisle," he said. "There is no doubt."

Emmett's fist through the window, shattering the glass into rainbow dust, sent prisms through the air.

**A/N: So. Here we are again, on a brand new roller coaster. This little plot bunny has been hopping around in my brain for MONTHS, and refuses to be left unwritten. I have only a vague idea of what I'm going to do with it, so if you're interested, leave me a review. The Island is still underway for anyone who's curious, but I needed a break from all the planning and world-building. I've hit a bit of a block with that one, so hopefully getting this tidbit out of the way will help to cure it.**

**As of right now, I have no proposed update schedule or word count estimate for this story. I'm going to TRY and keep it shorter than my usual 100,000+ words, but it really depends on where the story takes me.**

**ALSO, this is a New Moon AU (for those of you didn't see the description). The world I'm working in is the same as the books, except that there are no wolves, and hence, no treaty. All the Quileute characters exist in the story, but they are nothing more than human, just like everyone else. **

**Thanks for all your love.**

**For anyone who needs it, here are some people you can reach out to in case of a crisis:**

**AUSTRALIA:  
****Lifeline: 13 11 14  
**

**CANADA:  
Crisis Services Canada: 1-833-456-4566**

**UK:  
****Samaritans: 116 123**

**USA:  
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255  
**


	2. Lost

**Chapter 1**

The car sped like a bat out of hell and Alice, curled tightly in the passenger seat, watched anxiously as the speedometer crept ever higher. There was no sound but the engine, snarling as Jasper's foot pushed the gas pedal to the floor, and she stared, unseeing, through the darkness of the empty, deserted road. The night was black as pitch. There were no stars to light the sky, no moon to cast its glow. The road beneath them was riddled with divots and potholes. Headlights, catching sporadically on dully painted lines, flashed like beacons and behind them, not three feet away, was the soft purr of Carlisle's Mercedes.

The speedometer crept up again, ticking past 150 as the world swept by in a blur. The road wound tightly around rock cuts and water, but the car, maneuvered almost mindlessly by expert hands, barely leaned, perfectly centered in the lane.

As easily as breathing, Carlisle kept up behind them.

Alice could hardly bear to keep her eyes fixed on the wet, glistening road as her mind reeled with terrible, awful shock. The vision played in her head like a film— one that she did not want to watch. The sickening reel of disbelief, shock, terror, and sorrow cycled with each passing frame, and Alice, pushing herself as close as she could get to the cliff in the cold, wet dream world, could only watch the terrible scene play out over and over again, as if on repeat.

She watched the agonized tremor of the girl's knees before she jumped. She felt the biting wind, so cold and unforgiving, and the icy sea spray that would no doubt sting the girl's warm, soft skin. She heard each tiny hiccup, the final hitch of breath, as she spoke her apologies. _"I love you,"_ she had said, but there was no one there to hear her. _I'm sorry._ I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…

"_Alice." _

She shivered, the picture dissolving as she shook her head, trying to clear the air. Jasper's face was hard. His eyes, as black as pitch, were fixed so steadily on the road it was a wonder it didn't burst into flames. His hands squeezed the wheel, leaving shallow, but discernible dents in the shape of fingers. In the artificial light from the dash, his pallor seemed eerily pronounced, and when he shifted, almost imperceptibly, the sudden flare of colour along the contours of a scar flashed like a warning, a threat.

When he sensed her sudden defensive aura he turned, sharp and unhappy. She felt his influence like a drug, crashing down on her from her head to her toes, and for the first time in weeks she did not rebuff him, letting it soak in to fight the nerves.

Only when she slunk, calmer and quieter, into the cold leather did his own stance relax, though his jaw still twitched when he spoke.

"We are doing all we can," he said in a voice as rough as gravel. "We _will_ do all we can."

A vague, nauseous worry simmered in her belly. He fought _that_, too, replacing it with an unnatural, unerring calm, but she shook her head quickly, her forehead against her knees.

"There's nothing left to do, Jas," she whispered. "There is nothing left in the world that we can do for Bella Swan."

* * *

They arrived in Forks under the bleak overcast of dawn, just as the inky blackness was fading to darkest grey. The streets were empty— storefronts blank and dark, porch lights not yet lit. There were no cars on the road, no voices in the streets, and as they slithered carefully through the bleak, blustery morning, they saw no signs of movement, no hint of life.

They made it to the house in extraordinary time. The trip, a two-day trek by normal standards, had been accomplished in just over thirteen hours. Their driveway, overgrown with weeds, was cleared in minutes when Emmett and Carlisle slipped from the rear vehicle. She could smell the familiar scent of home— the old wood, the damp, mossy trees, the six great cedars, towering over the wild, reclaimed lawn… and when they opened the door to the darkness of the house, there were other smells that sent Alice reeling.

Honey. Lilacs. Lavender. Freesias… a small stain, browned with age, on the plush, white rug, glaring at her in the weak light of dawn. The smell was old, its tang and allure dulled by time, but it was there, and it was _strong._

At once, Alice held her breath.

The rest of her family, moving like ghosts through the darkness, found the spot as well. Jasper, his eyes a flat, dull black, looked away almost at once. Carlisle frowned, his fingers at his lips, and Esme grew quiet and still. Emmett, stormy and tempestuous, grew agitated, flexing his hands to stretch each muscle, every sinew, of his fingers and palms. Alice observed the rhythmic motion with careful calculation, watching as each digit stretched and curled in meticulous order.

The spot— a hollow souvenir of their last night together— was unmoved, taunting and macabre.

It was Esme who finally broke the spell, her voice shattering the silence like a gong.

"What do we do?" she asked, her words small. Emmett snapped around at once— her distress, no matter how minor, set his teeth on edge. Jasper's breath hissed as he turned again to the spot, his eyes fairly glowing with a sudden, fiery guilt, and his words, so softly spoken, were almost inaudible.

"_I'm sorry."_

The sound brought bright, inescapable tears to her eyes— tears that could never fall, and that would never ease her sorrow.

"It wasn't your fault," said Carlisle, almost in the same breath. "It was an _accident,_ Jasper… nothing more."

Jasper did not argue— indeed, he did not even meet Carlisle's gaze— but there was such a sudden, hard ferocity to their leader that even Alice, lost in her own sea of guilt, did not miss it.

"I _mean_ it," Carlisle hissed, and the sound travelled over her like ice. He grabbed Jasper's arm, his grip tight and immovable, while the latter looked up to stare. Jasper's face was inscrutable— even Alice could not read the fine, careful feelings laid out there— but Carlisle did not relent, and Jasper seemed to sag.

"I _mean_ it," he said again._ "I mean it, _Jasper. This will do us no good."

Jasper didn't voice the thought that Alice knew he would be thinking. Of _course_ it wouldn't do any good… but in circumstances such as these, what_ would?_

"We will go," said Carlisle, and for the first time since their departure from the east, Alice could hear the disappointment, the _sadness,_ in the fabric of his voice. "We will go, and we will search."

"Search?" Emmett's arms folded over his chest, his jaw tight and set.

"For… _her,"_ Carlisle replied. "Wherever she might be."

The very idea made Esme cringe, and at once, Jasper was on her.

"We must," said Carlisle, his liquid gaze fixed on his wife. "We must, Darling… It's the very least we will do."

"Where?"

Carlisle hesitated.

"Alice?"

Her tongue, thick and tight, formed words she did not care to speak.

"The cliffs," she said. "On the shore. I'm not sure which… perhaps La Push."

"We'll find it," said Jasper. "Her scent won't be far gone. We'll find it, Carlisle."

"And Emmett?"

"The house," he said at once, tucking a cell phone in the pocket of his pants. "I'll check her house."

Alice sighed.

"And you, Carlisle? Esme?"

"The hospital," said the former at once, his gaze flickering to his wife. "We can check there… I may yet have sway, and might perhaps learn more."

"She won't be there," Alice said, morose. "She won't be there, Carlisle… I would've seen."

Her father only frowned.

"Perhaps to Charlie, then…"

"And if we find her, Carlisle?" Emmett spoke loudly— too loudly for the hush and quiet of the house. "If we find her? What then?"

A spasm of pain crossed her father's features before he schooled them, and though his voice was here, with them, Alice knew his heart was a hundred miles away.

"Bring her home," he said, his arm snaking around Esme's waist. "If you find her, bring her home."

* * *

Her scent led them right to the edge of the cliff.

Sprinting through the trees like spectres, Jasper and Alice moved as soft and silent as a breeze. Jasper was ahead, his long legs outpacing hers by at least a mile, their trail marked by the winding, curving road that moved west of Forks along the bank of the Sol Duc River. The rush of water drowned out any sound their feet might make. The air, chilled and frigid, made no difference to either of them as they moved, both slick with ice-cold mist from the early morning fog and the soft, pattering drizzle.

The scent was faint, but not absent. It lingered on the trees and in the watery ditches by the roadside. Beyond it, leached onto the road, was the smell of oil and gasoline, of rubber tires and dirt. Jasper was more attuned to his baser senses than she was and he hardly wavered as he wove his way down the road, smooth and sure. They ran like the wind, feet dusting over brush and leaves, and when they crossed the fork where the Sol Duc transitioned into the Quillayute, they bounded across with ease, landing with silent feet on the other side of the bank.

Here, her husband paused, his face screwed up in concentration. Alice closed her eyes, breathing in deep.

Trees. Moss. Mould, and rot, and animal waste, all mingled together on dewdrops that fell from the sky. The nutty smell of rodents, lurking in their holes. The musky scent of deer, a few miles north.

And a whiff— just the slightest, gentlest trail— of that honey-sweet, blood-rich perfume.

They continued, noses trained on the lingering aroma. They ran for another two miles, straight east along the river's edge, until they broke into a sudden, narrow clearing where the trail came to an end, stopping abruptly at the loose, rocky edge of the Pacific Ocean.

At once, Alice felt her face fall.

Down below, far beyond her reach, she could see the devastatingly familiar shoreline, where she'd been a passive observer to the tragedy on the cliffs. She could see the swooping coast, the tide just beginning to shift, and the multitude of rocks and sea glass that had rolled beneath her feet. The waves were calmer now— not at all the roaring monster of the previous afternoon— and she could not help it when she glanced over, peering down to the jagged, shadowy waves.

Jasper stood at the edge of the cliff, just where Bella had been, and he stared too, head shaking, at the churning depths below.

"She was here," he said in a low, quiet murmur. "Am I right, Alice? Is this the place?"

She could only nod.

"And she…"

Alice peered once more over the edge of the rock. Her heart, unbeating and still, rose in her throat to choke her, and he wheeled, his face a mask of sorrow.

"I'm sorry, Ali," he whispered, and she did not resist when he pulled her into the circle of his arms. He dwarfed her, his strong embrace protecting her from the elements, but there was nothing in the world that could shield her from her sorrow, her _guilt._

"I'm _so_ sorry."

She kissed him, as best she could.

"We have to find her," she trembled. "We have to _find_ her, Jasper…"

He peered, solemn, over the edge of the cliff again.

"For Charlie," Alice went on. "For her _mother."_

The sound of _mother_ made Jasper flinch.

"They might've already found her."

"They haven't," she said at once. "I would have _seen_ it, Jas…"

She searched, desperate and hopeless, for something_, anything,_ that could overpower the constant, unyielding greyness that had once again enveloped any possible future entwined with Bella Swan. They stood there, as unmoving as stone, while the wind whipped the rain until they were drenched to the skin. The cold could not touch them— not they, whose flesh had turned to ice in a time long ago— and there was no one here to see them on that deserted stretch of pebble beach. Alice felt the grief well up in her heart again— the soul-crushing, terrible_ guilt_ as she stared down at the faceless, unforgiving expanse of water below, knowing that it was her own ineptitude, her own lack of _foresight,_ that had led them to this. It was_ her_ fault her parents had lost a child. It was _her_ fault that Emmett had lost a sister. It was _her_ fault that the girl had gone to pieces, and it was _her_ fault that they would lose Edward, too, once he found out what had happened here.

For Alice was sure, even without her preternatural sight, that Edward did not plan to outlive his mate by long. She had failed in her one and only duty— to protect her husband, to protect her _family,_ from such preventable, foreseeable chaos.

And now, her sister was dead.

Time, for her kind, did not pass like it did for humans. For Bella, time had been finite. Time had been _essential._ Time had changed her, as it would never change _them,_ and it had delighted Alice to watch those shifts, a series of small alterations over minutes and hours. Alice had known at once what her brother had seen in his new mate, had understood his fascination and his doubt. The girl was eighteen— no longer a juvenile, but still only a child in comparison to their decades of everlasting life. She was kind and gentle. She had loved him, Alice knew, just as he loved her, and all of that despite what he was, what they _all_ were.

Change did not come easily to those who were frozen in time. They did not move forward— did not develop, did not _evolve_, without a catalyst— and still, so seldom that when they did, there was no going back. They mated for life. In bonded covens, they built on foundations of absolute trust. They loved openly and freely, without constraint, and those bonds, once formed, were irrevocable and unbreakable.

Alice did not know of any other family who had bonded themselves so closely with a mortal. She did not know of a group to whom one of those fickle, transient, and terribly fragile beings had meant so much, or had grown so dear.

She cursed herself again, and cursed her absent brother ten times over, before she opened her eyes one last time.

"We _must_, Jasper," she said softly and his face went slack. "We _must_ find her…"

He looked down into the foaming, white-capped waves. In an instant, his chest was bare, his shoes abandoned in the squelching mud at the base of the trees.

"You stay," he said, and Alice had no time to argue.

There was a tremulous, rippling relief when he dove, graceful and quick, over the edge of the rock, leaving her to watch from the cliffs above. It would not be _she_ who found that pale, lifeless corpse. She would not have to pull her dear one from the depths of the sea. Her relief, shaky and sour, made her glad that she would not have to replace that final, terrible vision of life with an all-too-permanent memory of death.

For Jasper— loyal, loving, tender Jasper— would do her this kindness, though it was sure to repulse him as much as it did her. He had loved her too— Alice had seen it plainly on his face— and it would hurt him to see her, to _touch _her, so cold and so empty. He had not been allowed to touch her in life— had not been permitted to marvel at the warmth of her skin or the pulse of her human heart. He had not felt her breath against him, so strange and serene, or watched her escape to another world in the realm of sleep.

But if she was here, beneath the waves, he would find her and he would bring her back home, where she should have been all along.

**A/N: Thank you for the overwhelmingly positive response this story has garnered so far! As of right now, I have four chapters written. Since I am absolutely INCAPABLE of keeping any of my stuff offline for long, you might expect some new chapters later tonight or tomorrow. A few of you had some questions (some repeated more than once), so I'll do my best to answer them here:**

**1\. Why _this_ story, in particular?  
A: In an attempt to regain my muse for _The Island,_ I spent most of this past week rereading and rewatching the original books and movies. As deep as I am in this fandom, I've only read the source material a few times, and all of those readings took place a LONG time ago. I've always been bothered by the lack of consequences in the story, especially surrounding the mental health line in New Moon. This plot bunny has been floating around in my head without any real plot for a long time, and my rewatch/reread only helped to flesh it out. I want to play around with the concept of family, and what the ideas of loyalty and unity would really mean in the context of loss and grief. The Cullens always struck me as a family-first bunch, and this is curiously abandoned without much context or satisfying explanation in the second instalment. I want to fix that, if I can.**

**2\. HEA?  
A: The ending for this story has not yet solidified in my mind. My goal for this story is more of a character study than anything else, so while I can't say for sure if we'll end happily or not, I _can_ say that there will be plenty of time to visit with all our main characters. My natural inclination is to lean towards HEA, but who knows what torturous inspiration might hit down the road?  
**

**3\. Edward?  
A: Probably, at some point. I want to play with the others first and see what they've got to offer.**

**4\. Canon? Non-Canon?  
A: CANON. All the way.**

**5\. Is Bella actually dead?  
A: Keep reading to find out ;)**


	3. Searching

**Chapter 2**

The journey to the house was loud.

Driving along the familiar roads in Carlisle's black Mercedes, Emmett stared, stone-faced, through the windshield as the town of Forks was brought to life. The day was overcast, but the sun crept ever higher behind the bank of clouds to cast away the shadows of the night, bringing the town back to life. There were bodies, now, emerging from doorways and homes. Cars started. Horns honked. Kids, walking in packs to the schools at the center of town, crowed and shouted with their backpacks and their books. Emmett was often amused by the antics of little ones— he liked their disinhibition, their social ineptitude. He liked their freedom, and their gall.

But today, the sight did nothing for him.

Stopping at the only streetlight in the center of town, he felt a roiling, terrible impatience well up in his gut. His whole body was tense, as tight as a bowstring, and he tapped his foot against the floor of the car. The sound seemed thunderous— a frenetic, irritated _tap tap tap_ that sounded like raindrops on the windshield. When the light finally flickered from red to green, he accelerated so quickly through the intersection that the children on the corner paused to stare.

He paid them no mind, speeding recklessly through the sparsity of downtown.

In the hollow pit of his stomach, where worry festered like a sickness, Emmett felt the egregious, terrible shock of the past twenty four hours. He was not easily startled— not like Esme, or like Alice, whose spirits rose and fell like the evening tide on their endless journey through time. He was not so easily rattled or disturbed— not when there was so much of life to love, so many discoveries to be made. So many stones unturned, so many places unexplored…

And so, in the darkest hours of morning before they had left their home in Stroudsburg, his thoughts had wandered recklessly to that one, nagging discomfort. This mental wandering, so innocent and common, had put in motion a sequence of events that had shocked even unshockable Emmett. His inner musings had somehow thrown them into such chaos that he could hardly make sense of _how_ it had played out, much less _why_.

What he did know is that it had started with the girl.

In the span of a single year, the winds of change had blown his entire family out of order. It had come for Edward first— Edward, whom he loved more than any friend, as much as any brother he'd ever had. Edward, who lived among them, but who was so completely alone that Emmett often wondered how he could bear it. Edward had been alone since before Emmett was even born. Alone, and _lonely,_ no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

So when the girl had come to give him peace, and calm, and love, Emmett had vowed that he would _try, _if not for her sake, then at least for his brother's.

He could not have anticipated how quickly she would come to _matter_.

That was the nature of the beast, Emmett knew, when it came to the bonds of family. Bonds formed were bonds preserved, no matter how they came to be. Even his own mate, the one person in the world he cared for most above all others, belonged as much to _them_ as she did to _him_. She was a daughter, a sister, a friend, and a lover, and so strong were those first three that it made the last one all the sweeter, when he had her all to himself. He had loved her from the moment he'd awoken to his new life, fresh-faced and red-eyed, and over their years together that love had strengthened like steel in the sinews of his heart.

Rosalie grieved for the life she'd stolen from him— a life of change, a life in _time._ She grieved for the choices he would never make, for the children he would never have. _She had stolen from him,_ she would say. She had stolen _everything._

But Emmett, no matter how many years had passed between the onset of his new life and the present, could not bring himself to see it as anything other than an absolute treasure_. _This life was not a product of theft— was not a reminder of something lost, of something mourned. It was an unbelievable and extraordinary gift that had replaced any feeble loss from his human life with something ten times stronger— something as unyielding and lasting as stone.

Something that meant more to him than anything he might have left behind.

Rose had given him a proper_ family. _She had given him a mother and a father, whose unconditional love for their children spanned across time and space. She'd given him his siblings. She'd given him _her,_ without whom there could be no life, and she'd given him love, which his heart had craved like a drowning man craved air.

And now, as he drove down the muddy, rainy road, he felt a throb of sorrow deep in his chest that left him breathless. He thought of _her—_ that sweet, hilarious, clumsy little mortal who had wiggled her way so effectively into the vast expanse of his heart. He had frightened her when they'd first met— he had seen it on her face as if it were written there in ink. She had shied away from him whenever he came near. Her heartbeat, so clear and soft in their quiet, peaceful home, had accelerated with almost comical expedience whenever he entered a room she was in. He had laughed at her blush, intrigued by this curious vulnerability that belied her frequent worry and embarrassment. Emmett had played on that blush— had coaxed it out of her as often as he could— and she had slowly grown used to him before she had grown fond.

That fondness had been the final nail in the proverbial coffin— it had cemented her place in the structure of his family and had fuelled his wife's irritation so strongly that Emmett wondered at the absurdity of it all. Rosalie had fought him over his musings— had demanded to know_ why_ he was so invested in the girl, the_ child, _they'd left behind— and their discussion had ended in such a spectacular display of temper that Rose, riled beyond fury, had escaped to the reprieve of the forest. She was angry still— she had not come with them to Washington, though her family had asked for her aid.

She would _not_ come with them, she said, to grieve a life she hardly knew. She would not mourn the woman who had _stolen _from her— her family, her brother, and her peace. She would not cry for the creature who had taken her mate— who had captured his interest with such inexplicable strength that she felt forced to fight for what she saw as her rightful place in the hierarchy of his love. Rosalie did not understand the two, distinct versions of love in Emmett's heart— one, a lasting, sensual love for a wife, the other a pure and joyful love of a _sister_. She did not see the differences between them, and did not take care to examine the distinctions between herself and Edward's mate.

One experienced, the other unforgivably young. One strong, the other fragile. One safe, the other vulnerable, and one confident, the other uncertain…

One unmistakably, irrevocably his, and the other, who'd slipped away when he wasn't looking.

This little human— Edward's young, impressionable mate— had somehow wormed her way into the warm confines of his heart, and there she would remain, no matter what Alice's vision had revealed.

He had fought for her, this fragile little creature who held his brother in such thrall. He'd _killed_ for her, finding great pleasure in tearing up the beast who'd sought to take her from them. The thrill of victory, the way the tracker's head had felt between his hands as it was wrenched from his pitiful, craning neck… the memories made his mouth flood with venom, a deep, sonorous growl rising in his chest. He remembered the infuriating scent of her spilled blood, so tempting to his baser urges, yet positively repulsive when he recalled its source. And finally, he remembered the long, tense days of waiting back in Forks while she convalesced, listening to Edward make promises he wouldn't keep.

"_I'll never leave you," _he'd said. "_Not now, not ever."_ The memory made Emmett scowl.

In his mind, he saw her in that studio, bleeding and broken in a cascade of mirrored glass. He saw the pallor of her face, each sluggish heartbeat sending more of her vital life essence from the terrible wound on her leg. He saw her writhing, her hand ablaze with the threat of transformation, and then he saw red as the offending creature came apart in his able, willing hands.

Edward might have claimed her as a mate, Emmett knew, but in so doing, he had given her to him as a _sister._

Without his consent, the image of her pained, terrified face warped, and he saw an entirely different fantasy emerging from his psyche. The studio vanished, falling away like dust to be replaced by wind and rain. He saw a rock face with churning water at its base, and he saw her tears, streaming from swollen, terrified eyes. He saw her crouch, pebbles skittering dangerously to the edge of the cliff, and he saw her leap, more graceful than she had any right to be.

And then he saw her fall, her body tumbling like a leaf thrown by a breeze, only to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. In his imagining, the water flowed red and whatever bits of her were left were pulled away by the current.

The thought made him sick, and he pushed the car a little faster.

He did not know, though his speculation ran wild, just what he might find when he reached that little house on the edge of the forest. He had never been inside before, and only knew the exterior from his careful patrols around the perimeter when his brother would leave to hunt. Often, Bella had come to _them_ when Edward was away. He had bought a bed for her, erected like a monument in his room, though Emmett wasn't sure she'd ever slept a night on it. He recalled her scowl— her annoyance spurring her kitten temper at the sight of Edward's extravagance— and despite his persistent worry, he couldn't help his chuckle. He'd heard them arguing over it in hushed, yet still audible whispers, and he'd sensed his brother's irritation when she'd pulled herself from the mattress with the golden covers to curl up on his leather sofa instead.

Emmett knew the house by sight as it came up in the clearing between the trees. Whitewashed and bright against the gloom of the forest, he saw the darkened windows, the wet, creaking wood of the front porch. He pulled onto the gravel driveway with quiet trepidation, coming to a slow stop just shy of the rusted garage door. He waited, his breath held in his chest, as he watched for any signs of life inside the little house. Any sign of movement. Any sign of _hope._

When he stepped outside, he felt a sudden, heavy fear.

There were no indications of human life inside the unassuming little house. There was no motion, no brilliance behind those dull, darkened windows. The porch light was not lit, the overgrown flower beds brown and dead. The upstairs front window, which Emmett knew to be Bella's own, sat blank and still, the curtains drawn tight.

The police cruiser was not here, and he heard no noise behind the quiet, wooden door. The truck, too, was gone. When he breathed, deep and careful, he could taste a dull, sweet tang, ripe with the scent of _her._ Her house. Her soap. Her bedroom, and her things, and her _life…_ so many memories, in so little time.

Emmett made his way through the locked door without a hitch. His skill for lock-picking had been carried over from his brief human life, and though Charles Swan was the chief of police and, in theory, wiser than most to the dangers of unlawful entry, the flimsy doorknob lock was not enough to keep him out. He entered the house as swiftly as he could— nosy neighbours, spying through cracked blinds, would only frustrate things further, and he didn't need any added complications. He slipped inside under the shadow of the eaves, moving just a little too quickly for sleepy, human eyes to track.

It was only once he was through the door, closing it behind him with a quiet, muffled click, that he felt the thrill of pain down the back of his throat, his nostrils flaring with a sudden, terrible hiss.

He was in the kitchen— a place he had never been before, but which he had seen through the brilliantly lit windows under the cover of night the summer before. Back then, when his nose had carried him through the open window, the house had been full of the smell of cooking. Emmett could not appreciate food— not its smell, and certainly not its taste— but he was sharp enough to recognize proper skill when he saw it. Bella had always insisted that Charlie might starve if she didn't take it upon herself to feed him, and Emmett had started to believe her, once he saw the dishes she could make.

But this time, there was no smell of cooking to drive his curious observations of his human sister. There was no smell of dish soap, cloying and sharp. He could not smell the fibres of her clothing, or the old, dry rot along the western wall, and certainly not the subtle leather of the sofa, the metallic flavour of the tool shed in the yard.

This time, as he inhaled the stagnant, stale air, it was saturated with the tantalizing reek of blood.

It took him a moment— just a short, fleeting second as he fought for control of the monster within— before he realized where the smell had come from.

In the kitchen, where he stood, he saw the evidence of a house unused. There were books on the old, wooden table that he recognized— an old math textbook, like the one he'd been assigned last year, and a worn, battered copy of Orwell's _Animal Farm. _There were pencils, a calculator, and a familiar orange backpack, upended on the floor to spill its contents onto the old, white linoleum. On the counter, in the dish rack, there was a pile of clean plates, but Emmett could see the layer of dust that coated them, settling like velvet on the rounded edges. The counters were clean, but likewise dusty, and there were shoes piled haphazardly by the door, but all of this was irrelevant as he took in the brilliant stain in the middle of the floor, its highest concentration focused just below the dented refrigerator, which was unplugged, and silent.

Someone had tried to clean it up— that much, he could tell. The pool was brownish-black and sticky with age, having seeped under the loosened tiles in the center of the floor. After the first, initial sting of thirst, it became clear to him that the spill was not fresh. It was not new blood— not warm, or even _red— _and when he knelt, bringing his nose as close to the pungent stain as he could stand, he understood at once why the dishes were dusty, and why the air had grown so stale.

He did not know the scent well, having never been inside her house. He didn't even know the _man_ well, for all his wanderings around the small, quiet town. What he _did_ know, from his twilight patrols around the house last summer, was that the blood that drenched the floor belonged not to Bella, but to _Charlie,_ and he knew, even without Carlisle's trained eye, that there was too much of it staining the tile. Too much lost. _Entirely_ too much, and it made Emmett feel sick.

He stood with a sigh, his eyes raking over the house again.

"What in the hell did we do to you, Bella?"


	4. Found

**Chapter 3**

High atop the cliff, still staring at the rippling, blackened waves, Alice sat morose, her gaze fixed on the great, black pool. On the very edge of the cliff, so high above the open expanse of the sea, the wind whipped around her in great gusts, the chill seeping under her clothes. Her body felt like stone, hard, immovable, and rigid, and though the smell of their trail left a sweet, cloying sting in the back of her throat, the hunt was the furthest thing from her racing thoughts.

These rocks, so quiet and lonely, were tainted by tragedy. They felt black to her, filthy with a stain she could never lift, and ripe with the memory of her sister, her friend. Alice could almost hear her now in the sonorous cavern of her thoughts as the remembered the words that spilled from her memory like wine on white linen. The apologies. The declaration of love. The weeping— a terrified, wrenching staccato— that echoed through the trees. And then the fall, and the final, terrible crash.

She had not even screamed as her body had hurtled to its death. Alice, her feet placed precisely where Bella's had been not twenty four hours prior, could taste the terror here, as if it had leached out to stain the trees, and the sky. Her own terror, racing like quicksilver through her dead, unyielding veins. Her husband's terror of what he would find hovering in the deep. And_ Bella's_ terror, so heady and so fierce, in those last, final moments before the plunge, when her breath had left her, and the water had claimed her as its own.

Alice turned away, her eyes brimmed full of unshedable tears.

Beneath the waves, darting like a yellow fish through the rocks and weeds, Alice followed the progress of Jasper's hunt, impossibly fast and meticulously thorough. He had been in the water for over an hour, his speed and agility guiding him over each rock and stone with careful precision. He left no stone unturned— each pebble and boulder beneath the waves was disturbed, and shifted, and moved, yet there had been no sign of the one they sought— not a bloodstain on the cliff wall, not a scrap of fabric bobbing in the surf. The scent ended here, where Alice waited, and whatever had been left of it at the moment of impact had been dissolved into the sea, untraceable and lost.

The sky held a thin layer of clouds, just dim enough to dull the glitter and gloss of their skin in the daylight. They were heavier to the east, coagulating around the town, but there were hints of bright, blue sky out on the horizon, which stretched endlessly over the natural curve of the earth. Alice could see the great, white sun when the shield of clouds thinned and she soaked up the light, her eyes roving carefully over the wide expanse of land and sea that she surveyed.

Jasper had found nothing beneath the waves that would bring her back to them. Alice, her own scope a little wider, was likewise defeated.

They had no need for air, especially when there was no need for smell, and so Alice was not concerned when Jasper did not resurface. They were natural in the water, as competent beneath the sea as they were on land, and other than the deprivation of their sense of smell, their most reliable tracking tool, there was nothing in the water that they could not do on land. Their eyes, impermeable and unbothered by the murk of algae and dirt, could peer miles through the gloom to find their object or their prey. Their hypersensitive skin could feel the movement of the currents and every fluctuation in temperature. They could taste the world in the water— everything from tiny plankton to massive mammals, and they could hear, though muffled and slow, the many sounds of life chittering, rushing, and bubbling. They could not drown because they could not die, and so there was nothing that stopped Jasper's lean, strong body from diving again and again to the sand bars and valleys at the bottom of the bay.

When the clouds moved again, this time blowing slightly south along their eastern course, Alice saw a sudden break in the grey film and the face of the sun, still low in the early morning sky, shone openly and briefly over the wide, sweeping bay.

And when that sunbeam landed in one, long strip, on that lonely, barren island, Alice felt the air crackle around her.

The island, no bigger than a square acre, was one of those hazy, gloomy shapes she could only just make out through the morning mist. The inlet they searched was riddled with them— some sloping, others jutting like pillars out of the water, but all of them dark, and all of them bare. Alice could see, on those nearest her, the marks in the stone from centuries of tidal shifts, their bases eaten away by roaring, rushing water. Some had holes— tall, narrow tunnels eroded by eons of oceanic shift— and others, like the one she watched now, were nothing more than low humps, so far out and so deep in fog that they seemed to her little more than ghosts.

She stood in an instant, her eyes squinting in the gloom, as the sun broke through that gap of cloud. Where it hit the water, black transformed into brilliant, liquid azure and the dusky foam turned to purest white. On some of the islands between the mainland and the one that gripped her, Alice saw craggy bushes and low, stunted grass. The light lasted only a second, disappearing in the next behind a thick, grey cloud, but that second was all that Alice needed. Her eyes, moving faster than any human's ever could, took in everything the light touched in the instant that it touched it, and at the end, on the very edge of the sunbeam, her gaze froze.

Far out to sea, on that distant, hazy islet, was a flash of pure and brilliant gold.

"Jasper!"

Though he was still submerged in the writhing, rocky pool, Alice heard the shift in his movements as he began to rise towards the surface. Her gaze did not falter, squinting through the gloom until she found that shape again, duller and less pronounced in the overcast, but discernible and clear.

The relic, in the shape of a small heart, was one that Alice would have known anywhere— the golden pendant necklace from the night of the Incident that Alice had fastened around the warm, slender neck. She remembered its reception, how Bella had accepted it with surprising humility, given her total aversion to material wealth. Alice had seen this pleasing reaction in a vision, replacing its less gracious predecessor once she had written Rosalie's name on the tag alongside her own.

As she focused on that small spot, she heard Jasper cut through the surface of the water in response to her call. He peered up at her, fixing his gaze on what little he could see, and Alice, with a sudden terror that struck like lightning, leapt far over his head to plunge, headlong, into the dark, cold water.

He did not see what she did— he could not make out the soft, golden pendant, or the pale, unmoving body to which it was attached. He could not see the legs, bobbing dangerously in the rising surf, nor did he see it when that body was dislodged from the steep shore, slipping down, down, down, into the rising tide.

It took him only a fraction of a second, racing alongside her, for him to notice the body floating face-down in the shallows of the tiny island miles out from the cliff.

As always, Alice found herself outpaced as she forced her way through the currents and the rip. She could feel their pull on her, feel the riptide coaxing her further out to sea, but it had no more hold on her than the wind and she tore through it with only minimal delay. Jasper surged ahead of her, his body making waves on the surface of the water, and when he reached their goal, a full ten seconds before Alice, she felt his sudden distress like acid.

The pale, limp creature in her mate's arms made Alice's stomach drop like a boulder. He held her too tightly— Alice could see the budding bruises where fingers pressed into her wrists and the angry redness where his arm wrapped around her chest. Alice watched as he flipped her over, bringing her white, unseeing face out of the water, and he pressed a hand against her breastbone, then to her lips, feeling for breath.

When he found none, panic rose like a shot and he began to move with the spent, fragile body laid against him. Alice followed as quickly as she could, but even with the added weight of the girl in his arms, Jasper was still the faster swimmer.

They reached the shore in record time. Surging like bullets past the ragged cliff face, feet finding purchase on the soft, squishy sand of the deserted beach. They ran, stopping only when they were far enough from the water to lay her, gently, on the rough, pebbled ground.

At once, Alice began to tremble.

Single-minded in his determination, Alice could only watch as Jasper laid his hands on her, his fingers searching first her wrist, and then her throat, for the telltale thrum of her heart. Alice could hear nothing over the waves, over her own, sharp breathing, but Jasper acted for all of them when he batted his wife aside, his hands moving against Bella's chin.

Had Alice not known better, she might have thought that he was giving her a kiss. Her blue lips were parted, her eyes closed, and when he tilted her chin just a little higher to blow a breath of air into her lungs, Alice heard the answering crackle of water as it came rushing back up. It streamed from her as if she'd swallowed the whole of the ocean, and Jasper moved away just in time to avoid it, his fingers pressed again to the hollow beneath her jaw.

He waited only a second before he moved again.

Staring down at the blank, pale face, Alice saw the hesitation as Jasper leaned over her, braced against her chest. There was no movement there— no rise of breath, no thrum of a heartbeat— and so when he placed his the heel of his hand in perfect position over the center of her chest, it was all Alice could do not to look away.

He pushed down on her once, twice, three times, each compression bringing up another gush of cold seawater, before they heard the cracking of ribs. Alice, helpless with furious worry, rested her fingers on the artery at Bella's neck, feeling the returning movement of blood with each sharp blow. In her other hand, Alice squeezed the chalky, blue fingers, trying to rub away the dusky stains at their tips.

He breathed for her again and continued to push, each blow bringing up more water.

"Come on," Alice breathed, her heart squeezing as she willed life back into the still, pale corpse. The sluggish pound of blood through the girl's veins was not warm like it should be, but thick, and cold. Her colouring was all wrong— her face as white as bone, her lips and fingers sickly blue, and her chest, where Jasper continued to press with meticulous, unerring exactness, was a mottle of purple and black as bones cracked and vessels leaked beneath the skin.

Alice thought she had never seen anything so broken.

"Please…" Her face, pressed flush against the cold forehead, felt nothing but the wind. There was still no breath, no _heartbeat…_

"Please, Bella…_ please. _Not yet, honey… please, not yet."

_Not before we have the chance to hold you, and not before we can tell you, a thousand times over, how much we love you._

"Alice…" Jasper's voice was rough, rattling with a sudden, imposing dread. "Alice…"

She hissed, her coal-black eyes flashing in warning.

"_Keep going."_

His teeth clicked together as he snapped his mouth closed, his focus trained solely on the violent pump of his hand on her sternum. Alice watched the unchanging face— the lingering blueness, the pallor. Her hair, wet with sea water, and the line of salt that had dried on her cheek. There was a wound on the back of her head— Alice could smell it through her panic— and she could see the bruising around the edges, swollen and sore. Her body shifted with each compression, her back scraping against the rough, sharp rocks, and Alice pressed her lips against the cold, ashen cheek in a quick and gentle kiss.

"_I'm sorry,"_ she whispered, her fingers curling in the wet, tangled hair. _"I'm so sorry, Bella. I'm sorry."_

Jasper pulled away, his hands leaving her for just a moment to blow another breath into her body. Alice knew that he could hear her, that he could make out her whispered grief over the roaring waves and pattering drizzle, but his focus was not on his wife as he forced another rush of air into Bella's starved, drowned body. The fountain erupted again from her nose and her mouth, water spilling out onto the beach, but when he heard the sudden sound that made Alice's head jerk up, Jasper only hovered, unmoving.

Beneath his hands, so quiet and stuttering that Alice wasn't sure she'd really heard it at all, there was a quick and rhythmic _thump_. At once, Jasper pulled away, his eyes trained on Bella's face.

They waited for only a moment, listening for the next, dull noise. When it came, on the heels of the first, Alice felt a new urgency, a new hope. That hope warred with her panic, her relief with her overpowering fear, and when they heard the sound again for a third time, she saw Jasper deflate like a punctured balloon.

Another thump, and then a fifth, and beneath her hands, which cupped the pale, waxy cheeks with tender care, she felt a twitch and heard a gasp. Bella's lungs still crackled with water, the flood so deep that they could not drain it, and she choked, taking in a quick, sharp gasp.

There was a second breath to follow the first— just as shallow, just as laboured, but entirely on her own, without Jasper's interference. When she choked again a second time Jasper moved, rolling her carefully onto her side, and Alice saw a spasm of pain roll over her face before she let out a tiny, soft whimper. Jasper stroked her head, the contact increasing the influence of his gift, and when he spoke, it was soft and calm.

"You're alright, darlin'," he crooned, his cold hand brushing the angry, raised cut on the back of her scalp. "Thank God, honey… you're alright."

The sound of his voice, soothing and sweet, made Bella's eyelids flutter, and when she opened them, brimming with tears, he crouched to meet her gaze.

She did not focus for long. He had time only to smile, wan and shaken, and to touch his finger to her cheek, before Alice saw her eyes roll back into her head, her face falling limp against the sand.

The terror was quick to rise again.

"No, Bella!" She shook the girl by the shoulder, eliciting no response. "No, sweetheart. Come on…"

Jasper felt again for the pulse at her throat.

"Still going," he soothed, as calmly as he could. In an instant, they were standing, the girl cradled in his arms. "Too fast, and thready, but still beating, Alice."

When he moved, adjusting the broken body carefully so that her weight did not rest on her fractured ribs, Alice heard the popping crackle of her lungs. Her face had regained no colour— there was no pink flush to drive away the pallor, and her lips, still eerie blue, were caked with salt. To anyone but them, she would have seemed as dead as a corpse, as lifeless and as ruined as they'd fully expected her to be. Her head lolled against him, his arms strong and steady, and then they were running, sprinting on urgent feet towards the familiar scent of home.

The golden chain around Bella's neck, the only piece of warmth in the mire of grey cold, glittered like a beacon in the dark.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! This is the last chapter I have finished, so I'm not sure when the next part will be up. For those of you who've been around here awhile, you might notice something a little different on my profile page. I decided to create some new covers for all of my posted stories (including this one). If you want to take a closer look, you can find larger versions on my Weebly site (link in my profile).**

**As always, I'd love to hear what you think!**


	5. Return

**A/N: I fully admit that I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to posting chapters on any kind of schedule. I am OBSESSED with fleshing out this story, and I'm glad you're all along for the ride.**

**Chapter 4**

When they arrived at the house just as the first breaks of sun began to crest over the high, fragrant cedars, they found it as empty and silent as a crypt.

The family had left, just as Alice had feared. The Mercedes was gone, and with it her brother, speeding off to the other end of town in a fruitless, hopeless search. Carlisle and Esme, too, had vanished, most likely to the hospital or the police station… all too far, and all out of reach.

Running ahead of Jasper, who still held the limp body in his arms, Alice pushed the door open and followed him inside.

Jasper sped up the stairs, arriving seconds later at the door of the large, spacious office that served as Carlisle's workspace. Here, they knew, their father would be best-prepared to help, for it was here that he kept all of his supplies, carefully selected and meticulously organized. Alice had always considered this collection an extravagance— what need had they for these human trifles, immortal and impervious as they were? What good would it do to stockpile medicines and gadgets that they could never use? There were all manner of tools and tinctures stored up behind that door— instruments to draw blood from the veins, medications to slow the heart and alleviate pain. A drawer full of blades made to pierce the skin and another full of needles and thread to stitch it back up. There were specimen containers with odd, unwholesome particles floating in amber liquid, and piles of handwritten notes on decades-worth of experiments. There were old-fashioned oddities that looked better suited to torture than to healing, curiously placed alongside strange, new machines that had cost their father a King's ransom. Some of these machines were small— compact versions of larger, industrial items— and others were only ever seen in wealthy institutions— never in the alcoves of a private home.

Carlisle had never been prone to excess, but his fiscal restraint was weakened when it came to new technologies and discoveries that would enhance his work and make his job a little easier.

They moved her here in silent agreement, Alice pushing ahead to unlock the tall, wooden door to the office. The room was quiet and dark— the shades, still drawn over high, bright windows, had not been disturbed since their departure last year, and on the desk, she could see some old papers and a fountain pen. As they walked, the carpet plumed with dust that had settled deep into the fibers, but Alice was absolutely unconcerned as she moved towards the rear of the room, behind the large, ornate desk, to reach for the hidden latch along the wall.

She found it easily and pulled, watching as the nearest bookshelf swung inwards.

Beyond the office, hidden far back in a quiet corner of the house, was the white, sterile laboratory.

In every house they built, in every state and country, there was always a room off of Carlisle's office that looked like this one, though of varied size and with differing finishings. In this version, the floors were tiled in bright, pristine white from wall to wall, so immaculate and clean that it was almost reflective. The overhead lights were harsh, but bright— Carlisle insisted on this, to keep his observations consistent and fair. There were no windows here— there never were— and this was to keep the various vials and tinctures from oxidizing on the shelves. The floor was wide and bare, with only a few larger instruments taking up any space at its centre, including a stretcher, which was among his newest acquisitions, and a large, bulky machine that Alice could not identify. There were sheets on the bed, brand new and pristine, and it was to this that they brought her, placing her with every care on the cold, clean linen.

Jasper, his nostrils flaring, backed away as soon as he'd released her, his hands pinned behind his back as he rested against the far wall. Alice, motionless by the side of the bed, felt her eyes narrow.

"Go, Jas," she urged when she noticed the pale, rumbling hunger that had risen in him. Every inch fought for control— his trembling hands, his waxen face, his blackened eyes, without even a hint of familiar honey-gold…

"You've done your bit," said Alice again, and this time, she placed herself between her husband and the girl. "Don't make it worse for yourself… go, if you have to."

Alice saw his flicker of shame, his eyes darting from the girl to the floor, but he did not argue back.

"_Go,"_ she insisted. "Feed. Come back when you're ready…"

Behind them, the rattling, ragged breathing grew louder.

"I'll bring Carlisle," said Jasper at once, the terrible noise moving him faster than Alice's words. "I'll find Carlisle and send him back…"

Alice could only nod.

"I'll be here," she said. _"Right here,_ Jas… I love you. Now _go."_

He did not need to be told again.

Like a phantom, Alice watched as Jasper peeled himself away from the wall, his inscrutable gaze fixed solely on the girl in the bed. He would never hurt her— not after what had happened the last time he'd lost control— and Alice knew better than to doubt him, but that blackness in his eyes gave her a reason to pause. Jasper did not decry her mistrust, did not call her disloyal for her wariness, and she knew that he would be glad of her caution, if it kept the girl safe.

He would never hurt her again, least of all when she was so vulnerable, and so when he turned and bolted, Alice felt a thrill of pride.

Whether she knew it or not, Bella's presence in their lives had done good things for Jasper.

In the sudden quiet of the room, with no other sentient presence to soothe her nerves, Alice felt herself drawn back to the unconscious figure in the bed who had neither noticed nor cared that Jasper was gone. Bella knew nothing— not where she was, nor who had brought her here— and though Alice longed for her eyes to open, for her to really _see,_ she was glad, in a way, for the silence. Silence, Alice knew, meant that there was no pain. Silence meant that she was not _suffering._

Instead, Alice listened to the range sounds that shifted with each passing minute. Sounds that she had never heard before… sounds that she had never _wanted_ to hear. She relished the heartbeat, frantic and stuttering though it was. She relished the whooshing rush of blood, each new heartbeat sending precious oxygen to organs and tissues. The breath sounds were less soothing— uneven, harsh, crackling, strained… in some moments too fast, as if Bella were sprinting, and in others so slow that Alice feared that they had stopped altogether.

It was one of these episodes that brought Alice's panic to a head. The noise in her lungs rattled and then halted, first for one second, then two, and then three. By the fifth, she had poised herself above the bed, her hands tilting Bella's chin towards the sky as she prepared to breathe for her like Jasper had done on the beach. She waited another three seconds… _eight, nine, ten… _and just as Alice bent her head, her lips not one inch away from Bella's face, she heard another choking inhale of breath and she fell, shaken, to the chair at the bedside.

The rattling cycle began again, and Alice held her head in her hands.

"Oh, Bella…"

Seeing her here, like this, was beyond anything Alice could have ever imagined. Alice had seen Bella hurt before— _that,_ it seemed, was almost as constant as the sunrise. She was always knocking herself on things, always bruising her legs on the furniture or tripping over her own clumsy feet. Many times, when she'd tried to sneak through their quiet house, she'd fallen over absolutely nothing at all, much to Emmett's great amusement. Edward had given her up in despair— had stopped trying to prevent her tumbles and had simply taken to trailing after her like a little puppy, waiting to catch her whenever she fell again.

It had been Alice, eager to endear herself to her newest sister, who had volunteered to play the nursemaid when she'd broken her leg in Phoenix. Alice recalled her then, too, lying just as still on a similar bed to the one she was in now. Alice had watched the video that the tracker had made. She had heard his taunts and Bella's shriek when his hand had come down to snap her bone as if it were nothing more than a twig on the ground. Alice had been there for the x-ray, and then the cast, banking on Carlisle's rapport with the nursing staff to keep her place by the bedside. She had stayed with Bella whenever Edward had to leave, even just for human pretenses. She had read to the girl while she slept in her hazy, medicated fog. She had told her stories. She had laughed with her, and whispered secrets to her unhearing ears, and she'd watched, with an ease only her Sight could provide, as the girl's future played out in vivid colour.

Alice had seen her smiling. She had seen her _laughing. _She had been happy, and easy, and all-too comfortable in Edward's loving arms, right up until the moment he'd made the choice to leave.

Last time they had been like this, broken and beaten on an uncomfortable hospital bed, the girl had woken up. Last time, she'd been _fixed. _Last time, she'd been talking, and last time, she'd been _whole._

And now, Alice could see _nothing._

In the darkness of the room, which was so seldom used, Alice sat silent, as still as stone. The hammering of that heart was the only balm to her weary, ragged soul, and she clung to the sound like a lifeline. Seconds passed with every beat, each feeling like an eon in the hush, and Alice, growing more anxious by the minute, could do nothing but wait for her father.

Alice did not pretend to know much about the human body. She did not understand all of its inner workings or structures. Unlike Carlisle, she had never bothered to study the intricate balance of chemicals that kept everything in its proper place, or the delicate synchronicity of systems that kept homeostasis. She did not know anything about muscles or tissues or organs beyond what her repetitive high school education had given her, and she cursed that deficit now, watching uselessly as her sister suffered, her borrowed time running thin.

Listening to the erratic sounds of life coming from the sleeping girl, Alice could discern only one detail about this nightmare. She had spent enough time around Bella in health to know what her heartbeat should sound like, and as she listened now, she heard the differences quite clearly. This heartbeat was too fast, and too weak. The thrum, like little bird wings against the bars of a cage, was too unsteady and quick. Alice could hear the muscle working, fighting harder than it ever had before to preserve the life they'd forced back into it, and when she pressed her ear to the broken, tender ribs, she could hear it even more clearly, pounding like a hammer against cloth.

But still, it was beating. _Still going, Alice,_ she heard Jasper say, his voice like a mantra in her head. _Too fast, and thready, but still beating…_

Alice closed her eyes, her arms tight around the girl's thin waist.

She lay, her ear to Bella's chest, for what felt like ages. She listened to that heartbeat, listened to the rush of sweet, fragrant blood through every artery and vein, and she listened to her breathing, so ragged and stiff. She did not know how long she waited in the darkness, or just how many minutes it had been since Jasper had gone to call for Carlisle, but when she heard the urgent snarl of a car outside, followed by the slamming of a door and the frantic rush of feet on the stairs, it was all Alice could do to lift herself up before he was there, his liquid eyes fixed on the figure in the bed. He flicked the light switch in one quick motion and froze, his eyes taking in every detail that the darkness had hidden.

The spasm that crossed his face was almost imperceptible— only a small, quick tightening at the corners of his mouth that belied any upset. He moved with purpose and with speed, displacing Alice's vigil at the bedside to begin his work— meticulous, but with a quiet edge of worry.

In the brightness, Alice thought the girl looked worse. Her pallor, which could be hidden somewhat in the darkness, came back in sharp relief as Carlisle added another, brighter light to his inventory. The white linen sheets seemed almost warm beside the eerie greyness of her skin. Salt had dried like dust in her hair, crumbling to the floor when Carlisle touched it, and then he frowned, his ears trained on the many sounds of her body.

At once, he was at a shelf at the back of the room which was full of equipment and supplies. For the first time since Alice had known him, she was glad that he kept these stockpiles in every house they owned. _Research tools, _he'd called them, to help him with his learning. Tools to further his knowledge. Tools to _test_ for ailments, not to _treat_ them…

He growled only once— a frustrated, angry sound— as he rummaged through vials and boxes.

At once, she was on her feet.

"What do you need?"

Carlisle returned to the bedside, hands full of wires and tubes

"Get me saline," he said, pointing to the small refrigerator along the western wall. "And blankets, Alice. She's ice cold."

Alice searched for the requisite items as she listened to her father work. He was bent over her now, using his nose as well as his eyes to assess the damage, the harm that had been done. Alice knew that he was worried— that his mind was racing over her injuries and their cures— but none of that came through in the softness of his voice, his tender touch on her cheek.

"Can you hear me, honey?" he asked. There was no answer. "Can you open your eyes for me, love?"

He placed a mask over her mouth and nose and flicked his hand towards a tank that began to hiss. When she brought the saline to him, dropping the blankets on Bella's feet to leave his workspace clear, he clipped a small sensor on her finger which was promptly plugged into a black, dead monitor. At once, it came alive, and just like in the movies, Alice saw a novel of information appear in quick sequence— numbers that jumped from low to high and back again, and patterned lines that rose and fell in jagged peaks. She saw a pulse beeping at 152, a blood pressure that was too low, and another, unknown output reading 70, and all of these seemed to alarm her father, forcing his hands to work a little faster.

"Get me that bag, Alice," he ordered and at once, she leapt to obey. Before she could hand it to him, Carlisle had torn the wet shirt away from Bella's chest as if were made of nothing more than paper, and she saw, for the first time, the angry, mottled bruises Jasper's hands had made. Her body was swollen, some marks so deep they were almost black, and she wondered, for the first time, if what they had done was right.

Alice said nothing as Carlisle pressed his hands to that broken chest, one on either side, and began to palpate.

Alice did not know what he was looking for, or whether or not he found it, because as soon as she had returned with the items he wanted, he lifted his hands away. He snatched the bag from her, ordering her to bring yet another machine from the corner, and as she obeyed again, she saw him adjust Bella's neck, tearing the oxygen mask away. Alice had no name for the next instrument he retrieved— a long, curved, metal thing that he placed in her open mouth, his other hand reaching again for something else. There was a tube next, and a careful, gentle pressure, and before Alice had another chance to blink, he had pulled away, leaving the tube in her throat as he connected it to the machine she'd wheeled over. She watched him attach the tube to her cheeks, strapping it down with elastic and tape, and when he fiddled with the machine, bringing it to life, Alice knew at once what it would do.

It took only a moment for both of them to see the difference. The machine began to hiss and when it did, Alice saw Bella's chest rise and then fall with careful, even breaths. The respirations were deeper than they had been without the assistance, unobstructed by weakness or pain, and when the second breath came, and then the third, she saw one of the erratic lines on the monitor become constant and steady. There were still nasty crackles in her chest on each inhale— deep inside, where the water had not yet moved— but even so, it did not take long for the second number on the screen to shift 70 to 77, and then again to 83.

When it hit 85, her father began to move again.

Sure and unwavering, Carlisle worked with a purpose and a plan. Bella's bare chest, mottled and swollen from those rough compressions, was plastered with sensors and wires. He moved his hands over her ribs again, counting the fractures and the breaks as he went. He checked her head, and bandaged the angry, seeping wound. Her body began to shiver when the furnace kicked on and then there was a blanket, wrapped tightly around her legs, and warm, plentiful heating packs around her chest and arms. He checked her eyes with a penlight before he squeezed her fingers in a painful grip, and when she jerked, pulling her hand away without opening her eyes, there was grim satisfaction. In response to her discomfort, he pushed a syringe full of clear liquid into the IV in her hand, and when he pressed her fingers again, she did not pull away. More medications followed, though what they did, Alice did not know, and she watched, with mild relief, as Bella's heart rate began to slow.

Carlisle, however, did not seem to share Alice's relief and he stared at that monitor for almost a full minute, his fingers on her wrist and his stethoscope roaming over her chest.

It was evident to Alice that whatever he was observing did not please him. He listened carefully to one side, and then the other, before he moved back to the first again, this time with a deeper frown. When he brought out the next machine, Alice knew at once what it was for. She stiffened in surprise, her niggling worry erupting into terrible fear once again, but she said nothing as he pasted two large pads on her overcrowded chest— one over her right breast, the other on her ribs. He did not activate the defibrillator as he set it down, but its screen glowed blue, ready and waiting. Only after he'd examined it, rechecking the connections twice, did he answer Alice's unspoken question.

"It won't shock her unless it's needed," he explained. "It's a fine piece of technology, really… we should be thankful for it."

"Is she in danger still?" Alice asked.

Carlisle hesitated.

"There is always a risk," he said softly, and this time, he did not meet her gaze. "Injuries like these are tricky."

"What injuries?"

He stared at her, frowning.

"Aspiration," he answered. _"Drowning._ You managed to clear her chest enough to get her breathing, but there is still fluid in her lungs. Can you hear it?"

Alice nodded.

"It will continue to clear, hopefully," he went on. "And you must have noticed the heart?"

Again, she nodded.

"Too fast," he said. _"Much_ too fast, and weak. She's hypothermic, dehydrated, experiencing shock and respiratory distress… until I know more, I'm not going to take any chances. I want that heart rate down. It's still too high."

Alice said nothing as he reached again for a syringe, injecting yet another strange chemical into the port on her hand. Together, they watched for another five minutes, her heart rate slowly decreasing from the 140s to a more tolerable 120, and only then did Carlisle move again, bringing over the large, bulky machine from the middle of the floor.

"X-ray," he explained, in answer to Alice's furrowed brow. "I want to check her ribs."

While the machine began to warm, Carlisle tinkering on a laptop computer he'd plugged in to the side, Alice could only stare down at the girl, plastered with wires and tubes. There was nowhere safe for her to touch— not one part of her that did not have some kind of sensor or bandage that ought not be disturbed— and so she settled for resting her fingers against a bare expanse of neck, slowly rewarming and thrumming with life. When Carlisle asked her to, she moved each of Bella's arms out to the sides, both shifted carefully to give him a clear, unobstructed view of the bones within.

When she saw the image on the screen, she felt sick.

She could see, in clear relief even to her own unlearned eyes, the numerous fissures and breaks they'd created on the beach. Almost every rib on her left side and at least four on the right were cracked, and in the center of her chest, right where Jasper's hands had been, there was a neat, clean break across the breastbone.

"No displacement," Carlisle said, and Alice heard the sound of relief in his voice. "And no pneumothorax."

Alice didn't ask what he meant.

Moving slowly, as if asking for permission, Alice brought herself closer to the bedside once more, opposite of where Carlisle stood. Her father did not comment, did not move her away again as he had before, and when she wrapped her hand around Bella's bandaged, chilly fingers, she squeezed, savouring the returning warmth of life.

For now, at least, the girl was saved.

In the quiet minutes that passed as Carlisle worked and Alice waited, there was no sound but the beeping, the shuffle of instruments, and the rhythmic, rushing hiss of the ventilator at the head of the bed. Alice only watched as Carlisle began to prod again. He moved an ultrasound wand over her belly to check for bleeds. He poked a needle in crook of her elbow to draw blood. He took more blood still, this time from an artery on her thigh, and almost at once he took that sample away to a centrifuge, which began to whir. When he started taping, bracing her cracked ribs, Alice knew that his medication had worked, for Bella did not flinch or make any sound of protest, though Alice knew the pain must be excruciating. When he was satisfied, his hands falling away with a sigh, he turned his attention again to Alice, his brow furrowed and his eyes bright with worry.

"How long was she in the water?"

Alice froze.

"I… don't know," she admitted, her sudden anxiety almost painful. "The second time, about six minutes."

"The second time?"

His words were sharp, concerned.

"She had drifted," Alice explained, "to one of the outer islands in the bay, about five miles from the shore. She was on land when I spotted her, but it took us about six minutes to reach her once she slipped back into the water."

"Was she breathing when you found her?"

Alice shivered.

"No."

"And then? On the beach?"

"There was so much water, Carlisle." Her voice was so small it was almost inaudible. Beside her, as if to soothe, the rhythmic hiss and click of the ventilator continued. "I've never seen so much in one person before."

"It's not uncommon, under the circumstances."

"She had no heartbeat, either," said Alice, rather unnecessarily given that Carlisle had seen the damage they'd done in their bid to revive her. "Not a sound. She was _dead, _Carlisle… and we broke her, trying to bring her back."

"Not quite," he returned softly, and she started when she felt his hand on her shoulder. "You did right, Alice. Both of you. Had you not broken those ribs, she most certainly would have succumbed to her injuries right then and there. As it is, I'm still surprised that she _didn't._ Did she wake, at all, after you got her back?"

"She opened her eyes," said Alice. "I don't know that she was truly_ awake._ Jasper only had time to speak a few words to her before she went out again. I thought that she'd…"

She did not need to finish that sentence. Carlisle, his attention fixed once again on the still, broken body in the bed, could infer enough on his own. They both watched her, their ruined, broken girl, and waited in vain for any signs of change.

"She's intubated," he said, after a long, pregnant pause, "to give her the oxygen she needs. Did you notice her fingers? Their colour is not from cold."

Beneath her own hand, Alice could see the fading, but still visible blueness around her nail beds.

"The oxygen is working, and it'll help even more once her lungs have cleared. I'm sure you hear the crackling," he went on. "We'll have to keep an eye out for infection."

At once, Alice's head snapped up.

"Infection?"

"It's very common, when water is inhaled…"

"How long?"

He blew out a breath.

"It could take hours, or even days or weeks for symptoms to show. We won't know for sure unless she's monitored. I'm keeping her sedated for now, to let her body rest."

_To let her body rest._

"You mean…" Alice's confusion was plain, her words tight. "You won't… _fix_ her?"

Carlisle's stare was sharp and full of an overwhelming pity.

"No," he said, his hands tightening on the rail of the bed. "No, Alice. We can't… not now. Not in good conscience."

But Alice, her glittering eyes as hard as ice, shook her head in protest.

"Do we even have a choice?"

And then, with a great sadness that Carlisle so rarely showed, Alice saw the truth, as hot as fire, in his soft, honey eyes. She saw the doubt eating away at him like a sickness, and the defeat, crushing and sore. She saw his worry and his love, all tied up together, before she saw one final flicker of terrible, gripping _fear._

Carlisle— steady, earnest, careful Carlisle— was _never_ afraid. He had no reason to be— not for his family, which was as close to indestructible as it was possible to be, and certainly not for himself. He, like the rest of them, did not agitate himself over the passage of time, or their fluid, transitory presence in a world that had not been made for them. He did the best that he could, _whenever_ he could, and his best had always been good enough— had always satisfied the deep and gnawing conscience that drove him, at all times, to do what was _right_.

But this time, Alice understood his worry. She knew it, as obvious and solemn as it was, because deep down, it was _her_ worry, too. Deep in her heart, it had always been there because _time,_ so transient and relative for them, did not have quite the same effect on the girl in the bed. Time_,_ almost meaningless in their grand march through eternity, was finite here, almost _tangible,_ and Alice knew that there simply might not be enough of it to do what was required_._

"There are things that even venom cannot overcome, Alice," Carlisle said, watching her anger siphon away as if a valve had been loosened. "There are injuries, too great and too awful, that not even _we_ can fix."

"But surely…"

"Her body, perhaps, might survive the change," Carlisle agreed, nodding in acquiescence. "In fact, I'm almost _positive_ that it would, given the resources we have at our disposal. I'm sure I could keep her heart beating until the end, though she would need a few days to grow a little stronger before I would be comfortable even attempting it."

Alice said nothing.

"But we have no framework to understand what venom can do to the_ mind,"_ he continued. In the bed, where his youngest child lay, there was no reaction. "I tried it once before, Alice, with someone not nearly as heartsore, not nearly as _broken_. You see, every day, what my heedlessness has done to your sister. You see how she still grieves, even so many years later…"

Alice thought of Rosalie, then— beautiful, cold, selfish Rosalie— and scowled. It was true, what Carlisle said— her sister _was_ grieving, and had been for almost a century, but that grief had made her angry. That anger, in turn, had morphed into something akin to hostility, and while Alice loved her sister, she sometimes found it difficult to stomach her sullen, fiery temper. The thought had never struck her before— the supposition that it had been _Carlisle_ who had done this to her, who had healed her body, but not her mind. The idea that the venom, while transforming human hurts into immortal strength and beauty, could do nothing to heal fissures in the soul, which, if left untreated, became permanent scars on the face of eternity.

At once, Rosalie's face morphed into something less sinister, and far more hopeful.

"But Esme…"

Even in the face of such sorrow, the sound of his wife's name made Carlisle smile.

"Esme was different. Esme had _love," _he replied. "A love of a _mate, _Alice. You know the strength of that bond, how powerful it is for healing. She grieved, and grieves_ still,_ for the child that she lost, but she has found her peace in her family and her home. It might be the same for Bella— she, too, might find her solace in eternity— but we simply cannot _know."_

Alice looked down at Bella again, her face screwed up as she tried to think it through.

"And so…"

Carlisle spoke slowly, his words carefully chosen.

"I will not damn her to an eternity of pain, Alice. It would be reckless, and even worse, it would be cruel." As he spoke, his hand moved to stroke Bella's cheek, still too pale and icy cold. His touch lingered, almost as if he would _will_ her back to health, but the chemical sleep he'd gifted her was too strong, and she did not wake.

"Her body will heal, if she can overcome the shock and the edema… you and Jasper made sure of that. Already her vitals are improving. But beyond that…"

He shook his head, his jaw suddenly tight. Beyond that, Alice knew, there was nothing in the world that he could guarantee.

When he spoke again, Alice felt a pang of sorrow.

"Even if we _could_ fix her, as you suggest…" His voice was hardly a whisper, hardly a _breath. _Alice was not sure she was meant to hear it at all, but she could not miss it, even if she tried.

"Who are we, to make that choice for her?"

In her heart of hearts, Alice knew that Carlisle was right. He usually was, and she did not doubt him now. They did not know what Bella wanted— not after they had left her— and as she lay there, so damaged and so still, it only served as a reminder of the choice she _had_ made. She had not chosen life, either mortal or eternal. She had not chosen _them. _What she _had_ chosen, with plain, unerring decision, was that elusive release that they would never find, an escape to a world that they could never know.

Death was her birthright— her foreseeable, inevitable end— and they were not within their rights to take that from her.

"If you don't mind, Alice…" He did not meet her gaze, fixed as he was on the pale, sleeping girl, "I would like a moment alone with her."

At once, Alice rose from her seat. She did not begrudge him this— not even when it meant she would have to leave— but before she did, she pressed a kiss, feather-light, on his hard, cold cheek.

"Thank you," she said, and she spoke with love in every syllable. "Thank you for everything you do, and for everything you _will_ do, to keep this family whole. I'll let the others know what has happened here before I go… I expect they'll be home soon."

His answering smile did not reach his eyes, and he spared her only a glance as she backed slowly from the room.

When her feet hit the floor of the hall, Alice felt an urgency in her legs that drove her into a sprint. She spared only a brief thought for the cell phone in her pocket, nearly burning with sudden urgency, before she fled, running as fast as her little legs would carry her into the depths of the forest, tracing her way along the trail that Jasper had so kindly left for her to follow.

**A/N: Once again, I thank you for your overwhelming kindness. There has been such a positive response to this story that I honestly wasn't expecting, given the recent decline in readers (or perhaps new stories) in the fandom. This is one of the very few stories I've written that actually fits in any semi-canon Twilight universe, and I'm glad you're all having as much fun exploring it as I am.**

**Thank you again.**


	6. Regret

**Chapter 5**

In the quiet hush of Alice's departure, Carlisle sat motionless on the cold, wooden chair, his face as hard as stone and his gaze fixed on the creature in the bed.

Her smell, to him, was the only assurance that what he was seeing was real— so fragrant and so full, even through the dull taint of fear that still clung to her skin and her clothes. He knew that fear like it was his own— that cloying, noxious scent of cortisol and adrenaline, combining in the blood to ruin the aroma, the _flavour._ Of course, Carlisle had never tasted it to be sure, but he did not like the bitter smell that went against the very nature of this child that lay before him. This child, whom he had grown to love like his own. The child that his family had been prepared to keep.

The child they had so recklessly and thoughtlessly abandoned, when everything had gone so terribly, horribly wrong.

There were many times over his centuries of life that Carlisle was glad for the things he could do. He had saved lives before— some far closer to death than _she_ was— and some with injuries so striking that it hadn't been so much an intervention as a _reconstruction. _He had reattached severed limbs to failing bodies, his impeccable sight and steadiness reestablishing blood flow in even the tiniest of vessels. He'd reset bones and carved out tumors. He'd held the very essence of life between his palms— a beating human heart— and marvelled at it, stricken by the sheer power of his ability, the breadth and scope of his knowledge.

That knowledge had helped him in his quest to do good. It had helped him overcome his own nature, the very _purpose_ of his existence in this immortal form. He had chosen a different path than the one set out for him, one of kindness and goodness, and each time he gave himself over to his work he felt vindicated— a little more hopeful that perhaps, all was not lost.

He could not reconcile this compassion, on which he prided himself so strongly, with the horror he had created, lifeless and unyielding in the bed at his side.

Carlisle was not familiar with the sting of failure. He did not know what it was to feel this depth of guilt— to have erred so strongly that he felt it gnawing like an ache in his chest. He had spent so much of his eternal life trying to do _right—_ trying, and succeeding, to be the very best of himself, so useful and so careful. He _saved_ lives— brought loved ones back from the brink and reunited families whenever he could— and all in the hopes of saving his own soul, in desperate need of redemption if he ever wanted to leave this world for whatever waited in the next.

Behind him, the ventilator hissed and clicked with calming regularity. Her lungs, still swimming with seawater, popped and crackled with each influx of breath. The sight of her hurt him, made his old, unbeating heart squeeze with worry and with love, and he bent his head over her, his thoughts like whispers in the wind.

How had they gone so terribly, horribly wrong?

The realization rattled in his head, noisy and grating. It was the same realization that had come to him as he spoke with the nurses at the hospital, when he'd heard what had been allowed to happen after their move— their complete and utter failure. The humans did not see it this way, of course… nothing about their stories even _hinted_ at blame towards the fine, handsome doctor and his respectable family. They did not see the connection between his departure and what had happened in the interim. They only knew enough to mourn the loss, the tragedy, of what they had dubbed _the_ _accident._

"_The accident,"_ they had murmured, faces full of borrowed sadness. _"That poor, unhappy girl, and poor, poor Charlie…"_

When he cut the thought short, his lips forming sounds, his promises fell on dead ears. He could not help it— they spilled from him like water, and the soft, impulsive kiss to her cheek only hardened his resolve. His words had no effect— she could not hear them, and might not have made any sense of them even if she had— but still, they were said.

"We will make this right, my sweet," he vowed. "I promise you, darling, I _will_ make this right. We will not leave you again— not until you command us away— and I will not fail you again."

There was no choice for him to make. There was no alternative, no other possible recourse to take. The nurses had not shown Carlisle the medical file— _that_ would have been an egregious breach of trust— but they were eager enough to share the details of what they knew, and what the papers had already reported.

An animal— something big, and something dangerous— and two rounds fired from his police pistol. A body, exsanguinated on the floor of the kitchen, left there for his daughter to find when she came home from school. His arm, torn to shreds, and his neck, almost completely severed…

And the wounds— great, terrible wounds— from the beast's claws across his chest and abdomen. Bones snapped, muscles torn. The sounds of his child— oh how she had screamed— when he'd been offloaded from the ambulance, long past help, and how she'd cried again when she'd awoken from her faint on a gurney.

Carlisle heard the tale with stunted horror. He had listened, with his heightened senses, as the scene was revisited in vivid detail. He heard the worry, the _fear_ that hid behind bright eyes and unhappy smiles, before he heard another voice, eavesdropping from further off, that gave him pause.

"_No animal explains those teeth marks,"_ murmured Doctor Snow to a nurse in the store room. _"No creature in the woods could have left those."_

Carlisle had known in an instant what had happened there. He knew what it looked like when one of his own kind got carried away, when they played with their food before they consumed it. He knew why those two bullets had done nothing to hinder the attack. He knew why there had been so much damage to bones and tissues. He knew why those teeth marks, so odd and mysteriously human to any eyes but theirs, would have stumped a medical examiner, and why, even weeks later, it was still on his mind.

And he knew why the nomad had gone looking in that particular house. He knew the draw of his kind to their kin— the attraction of a large coven to provide safety and companionship. He knew the sting of loneliness, and how selfish one could be in an attempt to fill the silence, because he, too, had been alone once, and he recalled with vivid clarity the urge, the _need_, to fill the void with another living soul.

Their scent, lingering long after their departure, would have been more than enough to draw a traveller's attention, and this was yet another reason for his guilt to grow. He should have known._ Edward_ should have known. They _all _should have known, and yet it hadn't crossed their minds, not even once_._

In their hasty departure from Forks, they had not only taken a family that Bella loved, but now, her father, too, and perhaps her mother.

"_Don't even bother looking for _her," the nurse had spat when Carlisle had asked after Renee. _"No one's seen hide nor hair of her. Didn't even show up to the funeral, and that poor girl was an absolute wreck…"_

Carlisle closed his eyes, refocusing himself once again on the present, on the _now. _Beneath his hand, the girl still slumbered, unknowing and at peace. She did not know he was here, could not hear him, for the medications he'd given her were too strong, too potent. It was better this way, he knew, to keep her calm. It would help her body to heal. It would keep her safe.

_Safe._ He laughed out loud at the irony of it— oh, how badly he had erred.

_Safe._ That was the word that had driven their leave, their exodus from the home they loved and the life they'd built. It was the word that had convinced him to agree, no matter how reluctantly, to his son's scheme. Edward had made a convincing argument— her safety, her very _life_ was endangered every single moment she spent with them, and it was not fair, not _right_ for them to impose such risks upon her. She deserved a life. She deserved a _family._ She deserved anything and everything that the world could offer, except for him— except for _them._

His had been the deciding vote— Esme, Alice, and Emmett a resounding no, and Rosalie, Edward, and Jasper calling yes.

Rosalie, he knew, was glad to have ridden herself of the burden, the _worry,_ of having such a delicate, sensitive presence in their lives and home. She had never approved of her brother's mate, not even after the encounter with the tracker. To her, the human was a liability, an _imposition_ on her otherwise orderly routine. The girl had enthralled her brother— a feat that not even Rosalie had been able to accomplish. Then, once Edward had been fully ensnared, Bella had entranced her _mate—_ Emmett, honest and jovial by his very nature, had not been able to resist the allure of her, the charm_. _He had relished his time with her, found happiness in all the little things that Rosalie could not give him, and no matter how angry she grew, he would not apologize for it.

Jasper's vote had been more hesitant, aggrieved, and very much from a place of anger. He was angry with himself for his own shortcomings— his own lack of control which had, in his mind, threatened to take away the only thing that made his brother happy_._ Jasper had always struggled— Carlisle had known it, and accepted it, the moment he'd arrived on the doorstep almost half a century prior— but this time, the struggle had almost ended in terrible, violent tragedy. His lust for gratification, to soothe the ever-present burn in the back of his throat, had overpowered his logic and his love, and he would not abide it again— not when they had another choice.

Alice had been furious with him— absolutely _irate—_ but not even she had been able to alter his choice.

And Carlisle… all of his excuses, all of his _explanations_ for why he'd sided with his son, his companion, seemed now so feeble that he could not bear to give them a voice. His loyalty to Edward— his first companion and his truest friend. His concern for Bella's safety_._ His desire, no matter how misguided, to make his son happy, to give him anything he asked for simply because he asked for it_._ Carlisle had always believed that he owed Edward that much— owed him loyalty and trust to pay for the life he'd stolen from him— even at the expense of another.

He could never have predicted _this—_ not even _he_ was foolish enough to believe _that—_ but he had been blind, naive to the value of this fledgling life to the very fabric of his family. He _knew_ the dangers of love— knew how strongly and absolutely those bonds formed in immortality— and he cursed himself for ever thinking that this could work. Carlisle had never experienced true fatherhood— had never held a brand new infant in his arms to watch it grow— but he had created a family for himself nevertheless, and none of them had ever hesitated to call him _dad._

He had betrayed his daughter for love of his son, and in so doing, he wondered if he'd become unworthy of that title altogether. Fathers did not hurt their children. Fathers did not _abandon _them. Fathers did not crumble under the pressure of another to betray their deepest loves and instincts.

Fathers upheld their young, helped them grow to be thriving and happy, and as he stared down again at the pale, sleeping face, he knew with terrible sorrow that he had _failed._

"I'm sorry," he said again, and for the first time in decades, he found himself beside the bed, on his knees. "I'm so sorry, darling… I'm _sorry."_

When he began to pray, he did not know which higher power might be listening. Perhaps he spoke to God, who always listened, but seldom answered. Perhaps his pleas went the other way to fall on laughing, mocking ears. Perhaps he spoke to no one at all, his words simply hanging in the empty air like cobwebs, waiting to be gathered, and scourged, and thrown out altogether, but no matter where they reached, or who might answer, he spoke them nonetheless.

He prayed that she would find them— that her journey through her fog of sadness would bring her back to them, where she belonged. He prayed for her peace, and for her love. He prayed for Charlie, and her mother, both of whom were lost, perhaps forever, and he prayed for his family to stay connected and whole.

But most of all, with every word he spoke, he prayed that he would be forgiven. He prayed for absolution twice over— once for the hurt he'd done her by leaving in the first place, and again for the way he'd dragged her back.

She had wanted to die, this little bird with broken wings, and he had wholly and completely denied her.

When Esme arrived she found him like this— on his knees on the hard, cold tile, his head bent low, and his hands on Bella's bruised, pale arm. She watched them, blinking in surprise at the sight she saw there, and he backed away slowly, letting her see the full result of their ineptitude.

"Oh, Carlisle…" Her voice trembled and she swallowed, trying to hold it back. "Oh_ Carlisle."_

Staring, dumbstruck, at the figure on the bed, Esme breached the confines of the room as if in a daze. She so rarely entered— not even when it meant she would spend her nights alone while he worked— and Carlisle knew it was because she despised this room more than any other in the house. Esme liked warmth— she liked colour, and texture, and _life—_ and there were none of these things here, in the sterile whiteness that smelled of formaldehyde. There was nothing here for her to love, and so she stayed away.

Carlisle said nothing as she moved to the bedside, her hand outstretched to touch the thin, pale cheek. She recoiled at the feel of it— Bella's skin was still cold and rough with salt— and she moved instead to ghost her fingers over tube between her lips, her eyes wide and frightened. Esme had some knowledge about such things— she had listened, for decades, to Carlisle's medical talk— and she glanced only briefly at the monitor, eying the heart rate.

It still read 119.

"Is she…"

"Healing," said Carlisle gently. "She's much better than she was when I arrived."

"This is _better?"_

His answering nod was small and Esme, studying him with a piercing scrutiny, could see the shadow of worry in the lines of his face. He stayed silent as she watched him, taking in every sorrow and every fear, until her liquid eyes softened and she turned, speechless, back towards the stretcher. Like Alice, she did not know where to turn— her hands fluttered, first over the IV and then a wire of the EKG, before they dusted over the bruising that spilled up over her collarbone from her violent revival. He saw Esme's realization develop like a film before his eyes— the realization that these marks had been purposely made, that their girl had been _dead,_ for all intents and purposes. The realization that, had Jasper and Alice not found her when they did, there would have been no resolution, no _hope._

If she could, Carlisle knew she would have shed tears for the damage they had done. As it was her eyes were too bright, too worried, to hide what they both knew to be true. _They_ had done this to her, had broken her with insidious, treacherous lies in the name of kindness and love, and he knew that his wife felt the same fear that he did— the fear that even now, they might be too late. The fear that while her physical form might heal that her trust had been too badly breached, her heart too cruelly broken. The fear that they would lose her again, this daughter they'd abandoned in a wilderness of solitude.

Overcoming her recoil at the unnatural cold that still clung to the sleeping girl, Esme brought her hand down to rest on the slender neck. Bella's pulse throbbed there beneath the thin, white skin, and he saw Esme's eyes close for the briefest of moments before she pulled away again, her eyes swimming.

"Oh, _sweetheart."_

And then she kissed her, so soft and so sad, before she knelt too, her head resting on the edge of the bed.

There was nothing more for him to say, and so Carlisle moved himself back to the counter at the rear of the room where boxes had been upended and bags overturned in his hunt for medications and supplies. He would give them a moment together— as private as he could bear, while his attention was still needed on the monitors— and he moved slowly, deliberately. His wife said nothing, though he could hear the shuffle of fabric, and when he glanced back he saw her rooting beneath the blanket. She found the heating packs, flush against Bella's cold, bare side, and she moved them a little closer. Though the girl no longer shivered with cold, Esme pulled the blanket up to her chin. She was careful not to disturb anything, moving gently and nervously around the wires and the tubes, and when she could find nothing else to fix she fell still, her hands wrung and her eyes darting.

There was another pause of silence, in which he continued to file away his things, before he heard a second kiss, and then a third, ruffling the salty, damp hair. He heard her consolations, the quick and quiet _"I love you"_ that moved through the room in a whisper, and then the sigh, sharper and more severe.

"She shouldn't be here," Esme said when Carlisle had finished his cleaning and had turned again to watch. "Not _here_, Carlisle, in this room… it's not right."

"No," he agreed.

"She needs light. _Real_ light, from windows and the sun… not this place. It smells all wrong."

Carlisle frowned.

"She…"

"I can make her up a room."

"Just as soon as she's well enough, I'll move her," Carlisle agreed. "But not before, love."

Esme frowned, her eyes on the stretcher.

"Can she at least have a bed?" she asked. "A _real_ bed?"

Esme's astonishment, her _offense,_ when he shook his head, was plain.

"No," he said quietly. "No beds, my dear. Not until she's a little better."

Esme eyed the stretcher with perpetual dislike.

"And why not?"

The words seemed to choke him.

"Because if she crashes again," he explained, "it will be best to have her where she is. Compressions will be ineffective on a conventional mattress and it would be a great danger to have to move her again."

Esme stared, her face unreadable.

"Do you think that's likely?"

"Anything is _possible,_" he answered, and this, it seemed, did not soothe her. "I won't rule anything out. Not until she's conscious."

"And why _isn't _she?"

"I've sedated her," he admitted, "to stop her from fighting the tube. Should she wake, it's likely she'll resist it and it's imperative, at this point, to keep it where it is. Her oxygen is still low, and she was struggling on her own."

Carlisle was glad that her lips were no longer blue— that his wife would be spared _that_ particular trauma, if nothing else.

"And her ribs are cracked," he went on. "Three are actually _broken._ If I wake her now, she'll find it hard to take in the air she needs."

The fleeting anger, so foreign to Esme's sunny, cheerful disposition, crumbled away at their feet. In its place he saw a gnawing worry, so strong and sudden that it took him by surprise.

"Is she in pain, Carlisle?" she asked, her voice suddenly tight. _"Please_ tell me she's not hurting. Not when she's so still…"

"No, I don't think so," he replied. "I've given her morphine, and the sedative seems quite effective."

"But her heart rate…"

Carlisle frowned.

"I suspect it's the shock," he said. "Her blood pressure is still low. It's not uncommon after cardiac arrest, and especially not when she's cold and dehydrated."

Esme's relief— just a flicker of ease— didn't last, for when she turned back to the girl, her face fell again. As Carlisle had, she began to track her own inventory— every crack in her lips, every line of salt on her cheeks. The way she lay, so completely and utterly still, and the effect of his interventions on her weakened, broken body. Her colour was still wrong— more pallid white than anything else— but her lips had gone from blue, to grey, to a shallow, unhealthy pink, and the lavender circles beneath her eyes had begun to darken. Esme inspected her hands, her own fingers tracing over each knuckle and nail, and then again to the IV, which was taped securely in place. She frowned at this, her lips pursed, but said nothing as she moved on to other things.

She peeked beneath the blanket, her hands brushing against the heat from the warming packs beneath Bella's arms. She touched the tape over her ribs, pulled tight to keep the bones in alignment. She cupped her palm against the bruises there— over the darkest, deepest marks— and let the cold of her skin seep in, counteracting the vicious, painful heat that came from them. She listened, as he had, to the crackle of her lungs— unwholesome proof of her time in the water— and to the quick, but strengthening thrum of her heart.

Only once she had looked over every inch beneath the blankets and the tubes did Carlisle see her resigned acceptance. She bent again to kiss her, her lips lingering on Bella's forehead, and when she pulled away, Carlisle heard her quiet, whispered plea.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I am so terribly, dreadfully_ sorry."_

They heard Emmett like a thundercloud, his angry sprint pounding roughly against the wooden floor. Esme did not react— she had known he would come, and she had expected him long before now— but when he made it to the doorway he froze, his complexion ghostly white and furious.

"Jesus Christ."

He lingered there, in the doorway, for far longer than Esme had. The room seemed smaller, somehow, with Emmett in it— as if by the sheer force of his presence, the walls were pulled in a little closer— and it did not ease when he took one step, and then another, towards the bed where Esme stood.

"Jesus_ Christ."_

Carlisle looked away when Esme peered up, her eyes still full of unshed tears. The sight only served to agitate Emmett further— to draw from him a ferocious, angry rumble— and then he was there, by the bedside, Esme held tightly in his arms.

"Shit, Ma…" His words were loud, almost _too _loud, in the quiet of the sickroom. _"Shit."_

Esme didn't rebuke him.

Of all their children, it had always been Emmett who had reminded Carlisle most of what it meant to be a father. Emmett, who had come from such a large and thriving human family, had taken to them quite quickly when he'd woken to immortality. Emmett _liked_ the structure of their family, and thoroughly enjoyed his place in it, and his love of them was never more evident than it was now as he trapped his mother in his arms.

Edward had always been a companion first and a son second, Rosalie too distant and unhappy. Jasper and Alice had arrived long after their immortal youth and took their places with grace, though only for appearances, for comfort. They were children in name alone— sons and daughters claimed, not born— and Carlisle knew that over their many, long years, they had all outgrown him.

But not Emmett, the son who had been with them from the very beginning of this life he so loved, and who had taken his place among them with joy, not reluctance.

He did not touch his sister— not even once, though Carlisle knew the restraint must hurt him. To Emmett, Bella had always been so delicate, so unbelievably _breakable, _that it was only prudent for him to keep away. He'd grown more comfortable, both with himself and with her, before her last birthday, and he'd even dared to hug her once or twice, but now, seeing her like this, he did not even reach out a finger to touch a hair on her head.

This restraint came at great personal cost— Carlisle could see it blazing in him. He could see the anger— the absolute, unrestrained _fury_ that glittered in his eyes, belied only by his tender worry. The very moment he had entered the room, Carlisle knew what Emmett must have found— the blood in the Swan's kitchen, the scene of death like a bad film. He could smell that discovery on him— the terrible reek of blood, old and stagnant, and the sweet decay of death, not far off. He might not know the details, but Carlisle suspected that Emmett knew just what had happened in that house, and it only made his sorrow greater, his regret stronger.

Emmett's subtle nod over Esme's ducked head only confirmed Carlisle's suspicion and he sighed, his eyes closed.

When Emmett's arms left her, Esme stood shaken and alone, her arms wrapped around her own middle. The sight made Carlisle cringe— he always hated seeing her upset— and knowing that there was one thing, at least, that he could do to relieve some of her suffering, he checked the monitors again and turned his attention to his son.

"Will you help me move her, Emmett?" Carlisle asked, breaking the silence with tender care. "She's stable enough, now… but I can't do it on my own. She should be somewhere warmer."

_Warmer,_ he thought,_ and without the smell of death. _There had been enough of that today— enough sorrow, worry, and pain— and he would not keep her here, in the cold and the dark. She deserved better— would _always_ deserve better— and all of his worry seemed worth it when he saw the relief roll over his wife like a balm.

After all, it was the very least he could do.

**A/N: Thanks again for all your support. I'm glad you're still following. I hope you enjoyed hearing a bit from Carlisle. He's been rather polarizing- some of you love him, others absolutely despise him, and for my part, I find him extraordinarily difficult to write. For some reason, he's always able to sneak away from me, but I think I managed to wrangle him this time.**

**XO**


	7. Discovery

**Chapter 6**

They waited in the living room, each head bent and silent as they listened to the rhythmic, echoing beeping from the floor above. They had gathered here, filing in one after an other to feel the silence and the calm, though what little peace had lingered in the sterile sickroom had vanished with the sun. The room was tense— so tense that even Carlisle felt on edge— and the mood was tainted by worry and by fear. They did not need Jasper's gift to feel it— it rolled from all of them, from the very house itself, to settle in their cold, unyielding bones, and it chilled them from within.

Only Esme, glued inexorably to the girl in the bed, had declined to join them, and they could hear her humming an old lullaby from a time long ago. These were the only sounds in the house— the incessant, constant beep, the soft, sweet melody that filtered through the air like a siren's song, and the storm, howling like a beast in the world beyond.

Outside, in the pelting, hammering rain, the world was blurred by raindrops on the glass. It hit the windows with force, as if someone were throwing handfuls of sand, and the trees in the forest swayed and bent with each gust and gale. Wind howled in the distance, high and whipping, and the crack of thunder was loud enough to shake the house. Alice had seen the storm— she had warned them it was coming— and it was all Carlisle could do to give his many thanks that the girl upstairs had been found in the morning, and not in the afternoon.

Alice and Jasper had rejoined them at noon, just before the rain had started. There was no hint of hunger on either face— no hint of thirst, or of violence— and when Alice had darted up to the spare bedroom where they'd settled the stretcher, Jasper had stayed behind, his face downcast.

Carlisle had waited for him to speak— had waited for a question, or a thought— and when none came, he had reached out a hand.

Jasper, the quietest and most solitary of Carlisle's sons, was always tricky for him to read. He felt too much and shared too little, and though he studied the familiar face with careful scrutiny, Carlisle could make out nothing beyond what Jasper meant him to see. There was worry there— the same worry they all carried— and a quiet curiosity, but somehow, Carlisle knew that there was more, that there was something _else_ that had yet to be given a voice.

"Are you alright?" His question made Jasper's head snap up, a flicker of wry amusement betraying his solemnity. He watched his father for a moment longer than was necessary, as if ascertaining whether the man was in earnest, and when he answered, he was incredulous.

"Am _I_ alright?" he repeated. "I'm hardly the one you should ask, Carlisle. I'm _fine. _I'll always _be_ fine."

Carlisle had only frowned. Together, they'd stood in the silence, each surveying the other, trying to break the walls. Only when his racing thoughts finally petered out, coming to a slow, stuttering halt, did Jasper speak again.

"Is _she_ alright?" he asked, and this time, there was a note of uncertainty. "Will she be alright, Carlisle?"

He answered, as gently as he could.

"Things have been steady," he said. "I expect she will recover. She's passed all of her preliminary tests— her bloodwork shows no signs of organ failure, her oxygen levels are increasing by the hour, and she responds to pain and stimuli, which tells me that her brain most likely did not suffer any serious damage."

Jasper nodded once.

"You saved her life," said Carlisle, not one to withhold praise when it was due. "You bought her enough time to get her home, and she's back with us, Jasper."

He only frowned.

"I broke her bones," he said and Carlisle felt the depth of his regret. "I felt them, like the those of a little bird beneath my hands…"

"You did what you had to," Carlisle replied. "It's more common than you think, even when CPR is performed by someone without our strength. Better she survive with broken ribs than die without them."

Jasper gave a sigh.

"I didn't stay," he went on, and Carlisle did not understand. "When I got her here. I should have stayed."

"You did exactly as you had to," returned Carlisle. "You did just what was needed to keep her _safe."_

The word still tasted bitter and false.

"She wouldn't have needed saving had I not…" He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "Had I not been so… _weak._ So _selfish."_

And this, Carlisle knew, was the terrible, awful truth of it. Jasper was not wrong— it _had_ been his loss of control that had served as the catalyst for the whole, ghastly predicament, but Carlisle knew, and the family knew, too, that it had not been Jasper's _fault._

"You are who you are, because of where you've been," replied Carlisle, clapping his hand on the slumped shoulder. He took it as a good sign when Jasper did not shake him off. "You can not change your past… only move forward into a better future."

"I will slip again," he said, and it was not so much a warning as a statement of fact. "There will_ always_ be a next time, Carlisle, and I don't know if I could stand it again if it was _her."_

"You're stronger than that," Carlisle said, and to his credit he believed it. "She's not a nameless prey, Jasper. She _means_ something. To you, and to all of us."

"Yes."

"Does that count for nothing?"

"She meant something last time, too," he returned. "It didn't stop me then."

"No, but your brothers did," he said. "And so did _I. _If you think any one of us will let you hurt that girl, you've forgotten everything I've ever taught you."

Jasper glanced up, his eyes sharp and shrewd.

"And if you're not there?" he asked, hard and unhappy. "If I lapse again without you, what then?"

Carlisle shook his head.

"You underestimate yourself, and you underestimate _us,"_ he answered, and this time there was no rebuttal. "You saved her life, Jasper— were as physically close to her as any of us have ever been— and in so doing, you've proven yourself _more_ than worthy."

"I…"

"_I trust you,"_ Carlisle said, and when he saw Jasper's surprise, his _astonishment_, he knew right away that he'd made another grave mistake.

That he'd ever given Jasper a reason to feel lesser— less trustworthy, less valued, less _loved_ than the others— was yet another sign of his incompetence.

"I trust you with her, Jasper. You will not hurt her. Not now, and not ever. Give yourself some credit."

And then he turned, for he did not want his son to see the sorrow in his eyes— the sorrow of his own failure, both as a father and as a leader.

They had waited, the two of them together in silence, as the gathering in the bedroom upstairs slowly and quietly disintegrated. Emmett came first, his gaze flickering over his brother and his father with mild sympathy. He had heard the whole conversation— everyone had, though their voices had been hushed— and Emmett did them the courtesy of pretending that he hadn't. It was one of the kindnesses they frequently offered one another— a feigned ignorance, a falsified disinterest in the business of others, for there was no quiet, no _privacy,_ in a house with ears as sensitive as their own.

He could not, however, disregard everything he had heard, and Carlisle saw Emmett's joy, his _pride_ in his brother for doing what none of the rest of them had. Carlisle had spoken true— Jasper _had_ been the one to save her, to give her enough borrowed time to reach more skilled intervention. Without his quickness of mind and body, their sister would be dead, and Emmett was not one to disregard the great service he'd performed. He didn't voice his thanks— he didn't have to, with Jasper's gift— but he clapped his brother on the shoulder and grinned before he was seated on the edge of the sofa, tapping his foot anxiously on the rug.

Alice ghosted down the stairs after him, her eyes bright and unhappy.

And now they all waited, listening to the rising storm in the sky outside, and the soft, sweet sounds of life from the room upstairs.

It was Emmett, speaking into the static, that broke their silence.

"We must decide," he said, and at once, all eyes were on him. "There are things we can't put off… not anymore."

"Which things?"

Emmett frowned at his brother, his jaw tight.

"Things we need to take care of_,"_ he said, as if the answer were obvious. "Things we're going to _do."_

All eyes fixed on him, watching, and waiting. Emmett stared back, his rising temper melting into disbelief when the burden of speech was not taken up by another, and when he continued, he was careful, calculated.

"Charlie," he began, and Carlisle let his gaze fall to the floor. This was not missed— all eyes flickered to him, and then back to Emmett— and Emmett hesitated for only a moment before he continued.

"I don't know how, or why," he went on, "but I'm almost positive that he's dead."

Alice snapped around to Carlisle, blank with shock.

"Is this true?"

Carlisle nodded.

"But… _how?"_

It was Carlisle's turn, now, to speak, and he told the whole, sordid tale over again. He told them what the nurses had said about the animal, and the body, and he didn't have to tell them what he suspected, because he knew, in an instant, that they suspected it too.

His wife's angry hiss, filtering down the staircase to break the spell, was enough, and at once, Jasper had risen.

"A nomad," he said. "A _butcher."_

"So it would seem."

"Arrived here, in town, because of _us."_

"More than likely, yes." It felt worse, somehow, to voice these thoughts out loud. "Edward's scent…"

"Never mind _Edward's_ scent," growled Alice. _"All_ of our scents. We've all been there, lurking outside the house. I've been _inside_, for Christ's sake. But why…"

She stared, unseeing, at the wall of windows at the front of the house, her face perplexed and her brow furrowed. Carlisle knew what she was doing— looking for something, _anything_, in the past or the future that might explain this newest shock, and when she found nothing, she came back to them with a sigh.

"They could have chosen any house in town," she said, and this time, she was angry. "They might have come across any human. Our scent must be all over town— not just at Bella's house. Charlie wasn't special, not to anyone but _us_, so why did they choose _him?"_

There was no answer. Her question hung in the air like dust, floating in the dull overcast— why him? Why_ Charlie?_ Carlisle's response was far more wretched, far more _caustic,_ for him to stomach.

_"Why did the visitor kill Charlie, but leave his daughter untouched?"_

"That doesn't matter now," said Emmett, but this time, there was a hint of doubt. "It doesn't matter _why_ he's gone… it only matters that he _is."_

He glanced up at the ceiling, above which was the room where Bella lay. Esme did not make a sound— not a peep after her first interruption— and even the lullaby had stopped. Carlisle's next words made them all frown— Alice furious, Emmett confused, and Jasper simply saddened, though none of them had an explanation.

"No one's been able to reach Renee," he said, words spilling into the quiet like steam. It hit them all at once, blinding and hot, but it was Esme, fierce and righteous in her budding anger, who spoke from farther off.

"This is her _child,"_ she spat, and no one dared dispute her. "This is her _daughter, _Carlisle… what do you mean she can't be reached?"

She appeared at the top of the stairs with a face like thunder, her fingers clasped so tightly around the banister that it began to splinter. He had rarely seen his wife so riled— so filled with unadulterated _fury—_ and it did not suit her.

"I mean exactly what I say," he replied, and then, she was beside him. She studied him, as if trying to find a lie, and when she found none she snarled again.

"The hospital staff tried to reach her after Charlie was brought in— she was still listed as his emergency contact, even all these years later. They told me that some of his friends on the reservation planned the service… I think you'll recall Billy Black, Esme. We had some trouble with his ancestors during our last stay here."

The Quileutes had a long memory, and their legends had spurred old superstitions when his family had first set up house here over a hundred years prior.

"Billy couldn't reach her, and by all accounts, neither could Bella."

Esme remained stiff, her face ablaze with rage.

"There've been no calls, no emails… nothing. It's as if she's dropped off the face of the earth."

The implication in his tone was telling and Esme froze. Understanding washed over her in a rush, running from her head to her feet as it sparked and lit, catching like fire.

"Oh, surely not…"

Carlisle said nothing. The silence lingered, growing tense.

"We cannot know for sure until we make contact… or find someone who can," he replied. "There is—"

"But why in the _world_ would they attack her _mother?"_ Everything about Esme was aghast. "Why, Carlisle? To what end?"

"I don't know."

"Wait." It was Emmett who spoke, ominous and low. "What are you talking about?"

Neither Carlisle nor Esme answered.

"You think that whoever got to Charlie got Renee too?"

"It would make sense…"

"No, it wouldn't," said Emmett in a temper. "It would make absolutely_ no _sense. If it was a nomad, they would have no connection whatsoever to the town, much less Bella's _mother. _I know she's a magnet for danger, but even _she_ can't be unlucky enough to spark two vendettas in less than a year. James was more than enough. Why in the hell would they go for her _mother?"_

And then Carlisle saw it— they all did— flashing with sudden electricity as if lightning had struck here, inside the house. Jasper's calm disappeared in an instant, his hands curling into fists as his honey eyes darkened. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed with fury, and though the realization came to none but him_, _his reaction was enough to diffuse even Emmett's sudden ire. Emmett spoke with a frown, surveying his brother with mild surprise, but even so, Jasper did not relax.

"What?"

"You're absolutely _right,"_ Jasper replied, and he began to walk, slowly, towards his brother. "It would _not_ be in the nature of a nomad to do this— to target, to hunt without cause. Charlie might have been explained— an overeager young one, perhaps, or someone who doesn't feed as often as they should— but not this. Not Renee. Not _Bella_."

"They didn't get Bella…"

"No," he agreed, "and yet a nomad— especially one with so little control— almost certainly would have. They wouldn't have been able to resist her scent. It's all over that house."

Alice began to speak, perhaps to argue back, but she was cut off when Jasper's understanding struck her, too, her mouth falling open.

"Oh."

Emmett only grew more agitated.

"_What?"_

"It wasn't a nomad," said Jasper. "It couldn't possibly have been. And you're right, Emmett… it certainly isn't a _second_ vendetta."

"James is dead," Emmett pointed out. "He's not avenging anyone."

"Yes, he is dead," agreed Jasper, "but his mate is _not."_

Carlisle felt the rumble before he heard it— a deep, unfamiliar sound that erupted from the very pit of his soul, matched by the black ire of his wife and daughter, nearly spitting with rage. Emmett only froze, running through this fact over and over again in his mind, and when he rose, his presence was imposing— a threat. His sons stood together, each staring at the other for only the briefest moment before they seemed to ripple with violence, and when Jasper spoke, there was an odd, eager excitement.

"Did you catch a trail, when you were at her house?" he asked and Emmett shook his head. "Not even _slight?"_

"I didn't get further than the blood," said Emmett with a sudden, sulky temper. "I never thought…"

"No." Jasper paced again. "No, you had no reason to…"

Even so, Emmett looked furious with himself.

"We'll go _now,"_ he decided, and at once, he moved for the door. "We'll find it, Jas, and maybe find _her."_

"You won't," said Alice, though neither of them took any notice. "I haven't seen anything, Jasper… not yet…"

But the thought of the violence, of the _threat,_ had set them on their mission with a meticulous and single-minded determination. Emmett and Jasper were the family's best fighters, though they rarely had cause to exercise those skills. Carlisle knew how ruthless they could be— how utterly and completely consumed they became when their family faced danger. It happened so seldom, so _rarely_, that it could almost be forgotten, but at times like this, Carlisle was sharply reminded of exactly what they were, and what they could do.

"If she wants Bella," Jasper said, and Alice gave a hiss, "she'll be angry once she realizes we've come back for her."

"She won't _touch_ her." Emmett spat back. "She won't get near enough to _look _at her."

This threat— another added to the many that already faced the sleeping girl upstairs— seemed to harden Emmett's icy resolve. Emmett was clannish— he always had been— and he would tolerate no threat, no _danger_ to the ones he loved.

And there was no doubt in Carlisle's mind, as he watched them both prepare— Emmett's love for that girl upstairs was as solid as steel and he would tolerate _nothing_ that might threaten her.

Without another word, the pair of them made for the door. Carlisle watched them go, disappearing without so much as a farewell, before he turned back to his wife and daughter. Alice was unhappy— he could see the pinch between her brows, her mouth pulled into a tight, unhappy line. She watched Jasper go with only minor misgivings— she knew he would not be harmed, but still, she did not like it. The boys disappeared into the trees in a flash, rain whipping around them as the thunder rolled on, and only once they had gone completely, disappearing from the property altogether, did Alice turn back around, her black eyes blazing. She eyed Esme first, and then Carlisle, settling on the latter as she phrased her next words quite clearly.

"Someone," she said, "should call my _brother._ Call him back here to face the damage he's done. Let him see for himself what his foolishness has cost us."

At once, Esme shook her head.

"It would do us no good now, Alice."

"It would do _me_ all kinds of good. He should know what he's done… to us, and to _her."_

"It would only hurt him."

"I _want_ it to hurt him!"

"It should be Bella's choice."

"I don't _care."_ Alice's chin was jutted, her arms crossed in stubborn opposition. "He _deserves_ to know. She's his _mate,_ for God's sake, and she's only barely living. _I_ would want to know, if it were me."

"He'd be of no help."

"He'd be positively _useless," _agreed Alice with relish, "but I _want_ him to know. I want him to feel what we've all felt while we've sat here, unable to do a _thing."_

Not strictly true, Carlisle knew, but the sentiment was clear.

"That is precisely why we should wait, Alice," returned Esme. His wife could be as stubborn as the rest of them, once she got her mind on something, and Carlisle was in no great hurry to intervene. That moment came too soon, however, when Alice scowled and turned, fixing her stare instead on _him._

"Carlisle?"

He shook his head, resolute.

"I will not be the tiebreaker again, Alice," he said. "Never again. Sort it out between you. Right now, there are more important things for me to look after. If this new danger comes to a fight, I will need to make sure we are prepared for _every_ outcome."

Alice glowed with a fierce delight.

"If it comes to a fight," she said, "we'll _need _him. We'll need _all_ of us."

Carlisle turned away.

"It will hurt him, Alice… more than anything else in the world," pleaded Esme, though Carlisle could hear her rising defeat. "None of us have ever experienced this— have never been so close to losing someone we love— and I _beg _you to think before you act. You _know_ how angry he'll be, how _frightened. _This will do nothing but hurt him, even if it helps us."

Alice's savage, wild pleasure was bright and hot as she snapped back, her tone rife with terrible satisfaction.

"_Good."_

**A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you're still enjoying it. I've always felt that Jasper was a little on the fringes, even in his own family- like he didn't quite _belong._ For someone who worked so hard to change who he is, he never really got much credit for that. I always wondered what it must be like for him, trying and failing to be as "good" as everyone else, and never more so than after the birthday incident. **

**Also, for those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, I've created a very sparse outline for where this story might go, and right now, it's sitting at 20 chapters. This isn't set in stone, but I don't think this story will be as short as I had originally planned.**


	8. Wake

**Chapter 7**

In the quiet of the sickroom, time had a way of standing still.

In the hours that turned into long and distant days, life outside moved on, but the world inside stood still. Seconds, held in silent conference at the bedside, turned to minutes, and those minutes into hours. Moments passed in halting procession— at first hardly at all, and then all at once in a rush and a blur. When they were alone together, Esme and her dear one, she thought that time might never stop in its endless, reckless stampede through her life and her home. It changed the light with each passing minute, making new shadows on her face, illuminating new marks and bruises that Esme had not noticed just a moment before. It changed her temperature— darkness forcing a drop, and the morning a nervous, aching rise. Sometimes, she felt cold, and Esme would move to the drawers to hunt up another comforter or sheet, but before she could settle, before she could be _still,_ the girl would sweat and shake.

The shaking, Carlisle assured her, was only shivers in the dark. They would not hurt her, _could _not hurt her, unless her temperature rose too high, but they bothered Esme nonetheless. She had never felt like this before— so unsure, and so _useless— _and she was so unused to being rendered unhelpful that she tried to make up for it by doing whatever she could to make it right.

And all the while she kept her constant vigil, doing what little she could to make their girl safe and happy.

The room was softer now— gentler than it had been before their return— its hard, clean lines and dark contrast of colours replaced by softer hues and furnishings. Esme had liked the sharpness of its original design with classic, imposing furniture and bright, vibrant colour, but somehow, these choices did not seem fitting for a girl like Bella. Esme knew little of her tastes— Bella had offered no opinion about their home other than an occasional praising compliment— but Esme took her cues from subtler, gentler clues.

Bella liked soft blankets that didn't scratch her when she held them. She always gravitated towards a gentler palette, rather than the bright, imposing pieces that might have suited Rosalie or Alice. Edward had liked her in blue— had admired the way her skin had contrasted with the deeper, cooler tones— but Bella herself seemed to prefer greens, and sometimes grey. Esme had dismantled the bed that had dominated the space, hauling it away to make room for the equipment and tools, but already she had purchased a different set for when the gurney could be retired, this one made of warm, rounded wood instead of sharp, clean metal. She had placed a plush, fluffy rug on the floor to keep away the chill. She had turned on the fireplace to keep the room toasty warm.

It was the very least that she could do, to perform these small kindnesses that would show just a small measure of the love she felt for this girl who had claimed her— who had claimed _all_ of them.

Esme waited, every day, for a change that would not come. She prayed, as hard as she'd ever done before, for some sign of movement, for some new and welcome _progress._

She waited three days in tense, unhappy silence, before that prayer was finally answered. It came with her husband, arriving just on schedule at the crack of dawn, his face pensive and his gaze fixed on the glowing, beeping monitors. He did not move as quickly as he usually did— did not enter as surely, or as calmly— and though she had no reason to be, the sight made her anxious.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, her mind going over everything she had seen, everything she had _heard,_ since his last visit two hours prior. She'd spent every moment of those hours with their girl, tracing patterns on her pale, soft skin and whispering secrets and songs into her sleeping ears. She had not yet woken— Carlisle's routine of sedatives had made sure of that— but this time, his smile morphed into a frown.

"Nothing's wrong," he said as he reached out, his hand brushing over the buttons on the monitor. A new screen came up, this one unfamiliar, and strange.

Esme said nothing as she waited in suspense for an explanation for this change. His routine had never varied— he always entered, always smiled, before he checked the tube between her lips. When he was satisfied, he would draw her blood and take her temperature. He'd check her IV, sometimes flushing it with a large syringe of saline, and yesterday, he'd hung a bag of antibiotics.

"Only prophylactic," he'd soothed when she'd risen in alarm. There had been no change, no shift in her temperature to suggest infection, and Esme knew this for a fact because she'd held that sweet, pale hand from morning until night. "She's bedridden, and hasn't been able to move anything in her chest with the ventilator in the way. I don't want any bacteria from that seawater taking hold in her lungs because she can't cough it up."

The antibiotics had done nothing but alter her scent, which had already been diluted by the constant infusion of saline. It had not changed her colouring, which was still too pale, and it had not brought her back from her constant, deep sleep.

Carlisle had checked her eyes again, watching as her pupils contracted and dilated with each pass of the penlight. He'd squeezed her fingers— too hard, Esme thought, and too long— and she'd seen the flicker of movement, the quick pull against the pinch. Only once he was satisfied, sure that she had not deteriorated, did he move to the final item on his checklist— the broken bones in her chest which, according to his most recent x-ray, were slowly starting to heal. Two had begun to knit, he'd told her, and the three others were coming close. He'd removed the defibrillator two days prior, having deemed its presence unnecessary now that her heartbeat had stabilized. Esme had watched it like a hawk, her eyes trained on the rise and fall of the jagged, green line on the screen, but she'd had no reason to worry as the beats had stayed constant and regular.

And so today, under Carlisle's curious frown, Esme felt her resolve waver, her confidence crumbling.

"Nothing is _wrong,"_ said Carlisle again, flicking the screen back to the one she knew. "I mean it. She's doing well."

Esme, shaken, said nothing.

"I want to try her off the vent," he said, and Esme blinked in surprise. "Her sats are at 96, and she's no longer on oxygen… it's breathing for her now, but with regular, unaltered air."

Esme frowned, concerned.

"Will she tolerate it?" she asked, peering nervously at the ribs that were still black and blue. "Will it hurt her?"

"It might," he admitted. "It will mean more work for her own muscles, but the sooner she can be taken off, the higher her chances of recovery."

Esme waited, pondering.

"And you think it's best?"

"I do."

"And if she can't handle it?"

"Then I'll reattach it," he said, as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. "I won't remove the tube until I'm sure. I'd just like to disconnect the machine and she if she'll breathe on her own. It's the first step to waking her up. Without it, she'll continue to sleep."

And so Esme, agreeing rather reluctantly, watched with concern as he tinkered with the machine, cutting the rhythmic hiss short before the it was detached from the tube in her throat. The moment was rather anticlimactic— she had not known what she should expect, nor what her husband was waiting for, but when she heard the first, brief inhale, it was like a balm to her weary nerves.

Carlisle, his relief almost palpable, let out a shaky, quiet laugh.

"That's it, sweetheart," he whispered to her, his face cracking into a smile. There was another breath, and then a third, and though his eyes stayed glued to the monitor, he did not seem alarmed or distressed.

The fourth inhale was deep, the fifth one deeper still, and by the time they'd watched the rise and fall of her chest for a full five minutes, Carlisle was satisfied.

When he took the tube away, gently peeling the tape from her cheeks, he left behind two angry, red spots. Esme smoothed them at once, feeling the heat and swelling beneath her hands, but she pulled away when Carlisle moved again, his fingers hooked around the tube.

Bella coughed when he pulled it, her body spasming even in sleep, and Esme cringed at the strain on her ribs, though it did not wake her. She did not look as Carlisle threw it away, his gaze once again fixed on the monitor, and after a moment of quiet contemplation he produced a nasal cannula, which he attached to the oxygen tank at the head of the bed.

"Is that necessary?" Esme asked, alarmed. "I thought you said she was breathing on her own."

"And so she is," Carlisle replied, adjusting the flow before he tucked the excess tubing behind her ears. "Her breathing is liable to be shallow now that she's in control. I don't want that to make things difficult for her."

Esme only sighed, retaking her seat at the bedside. Carlisle stood behind her, his face thoughtful and subdued, and when she spoke again, he grimaced.

"Are the boys back yet?" she asked, glancing through the window beyond which the sky had only just begun to lighten with the sunrise. "Have they found anything new?"

"They're following a new trail," said Carlisle and she saw the darkening of his eyes, the tightness in his face. "They found another scent— not_ hers,_ but another one of us."

It was so rare for Carlisle to be angry, and even rarer still for him to _show_ it, that Esme had to pause, giving him a moment to collect himself.

"How far?"

"They tracked her all the way to the Canadian border last night," Carlisle said, and this time, he turned away. In the glow from the window, he seemed almost haloed in light as he surveyed the long stretch of yard that led to the woods. "She hasn't come near the house, and they can't figure out where she's established her base."

"What base?"

"She has to be working from somewhere," said Carlisle dully. "She can't be planning, plotting like this, from the trees."

"She might be…"

"She's changing clothes," he said, shaking his head as he turned again. "She's not simply living off the land. She's got somewhere to keep her things, and she's avoiding Alice."

"How would she even know…?"

Carlisle's face tightened again.

"I think we can thank our cousins for that little complication," he replied. "You remember Laurent?"

"Naturally."

"He took a liking to Irina, or so I'm told," said Carlisle wryly. "He'd pledged himself to our lifestyle, before he walked away from them. Irina and he grew quite close. I'm almost positive she shared more than she should have."

"And so Alice…"

"Has seen nothing, and is half-mad with frustration," said Carlisle with a laugh that was not at all humorous. "It's like we've come full circle."

He glanced at the girl, still breathing steadily, and sighed.

"She can't see Bella either."

At once, Esme stood.

"What do you mean, she can't see her?"

"I mean she _can't see her,"_ said Carlisle dryly. "Not a thing but that infernal, grey mist, like before."

Esme stared.

"But she's…"

"Healing," said Carlisle again. "She will wake, once the sedative wears off… I can't explain it, Esme. She's always been an enigma."

It was true. This girl, this _child_ who had so completely and utterly captured Edward's heart, had always been an oddity, an exception to almost every rule. It frustrated Esme— regularity, they could understand, and routine, they could follow, but there were no guidelines, no _protocols,_ to make sense of such unknowns.

Carlisle interrupted her musings before she grew agitated.

"Perhaps it's to do with us," he said sadly, his finger dusting over the sharpness of Bella's cheek, which had lost all of its roundness. "Maybe _we've_ done this."

Esme felt a pang of guilt.

"There was never any trouble before… Alice could see her as clearly as any of us."

"Ah." Carlisle shook his head. "But we were _here_ before, my love. Here with her. And there was nothing, before, that suggested to me that she might be capable of inflicting such violence on herself."

Esme squeezed the warm, soft hand again, reassured at the healthy, defiant pulse beneath the skin.

"She was _living,_ Esme, before we left her," he said, "and even though we're here with her again, we have only the barest understanding of what our absence actually meant."

"She'll heal…"

"I hope so," Carlisle leaned over the bed to press a kiss to her temple, so soft and so sweet, and inhaled the delicate, fragrant scent with a sigh. "I hope so, darling, for her sake, and for ours."

* * *

It was the middle of the morning, with a sky as blue and clear as a sapphire, when the second change began.

Seated just as she was when Carlisle had left them, returning to his workspace beyond the office to track his inventory, Esme waited, as still and as silent as a statue. She had no need to move, no need to fidget or fuss, and she was quite content to simply be, alone and at peace. The girl had not so much as twitched— her face smooth and calm, her hands limp and cold. At her side, the monitor continued to beep, the clip on her finger sending all manner of data to be compiled and displayed, and all the while Esme sat, and waited.

The medication flowing through her veins was something that Esme was not familiar with. She was not used to the smell of chemicals, so foreign and so strange, and there was something about the way they altered her natural scent that put Esme on edge. She had learned to master this worry— to keep it quiet and subdued— and she had soothed herself by studying it, by learning the flavours and tones of each individual substance.

She knew Bella's natural scent as if it were her own— the floral undertones, the sweet, peachy tang. She knew what the medicines smelled like through the plastic of tubes and syringes— the same smell that sometimes followed Carlisle home from his work at the hospital. She learned all of the different aromas— saline, opiates, sedatives, antibiotics, stabilizers… all acrid and unsavoury, but each distinct and unique from all the others.

What she had not understood was the mixing of these things— the differences in the blood in response to these chemicals, and the way those chemicals were altered by the substance of the blood. The morphine made Bella smell like nettles— as if the taste of her would prickle and sting. It flowed freely, mingling with the salt of the saline, for Carlisle would not abide suffering, even in her unnatural sleep. The antibiotic smelled like decay— like mold beneath old, wet leaves— but when it entered Bella's body it dissipated somewhat as it mingled with the rest.

The sedative was a beast all its own— as strong as liquid steel, with a stinging burn like acid and a tang of bitter metal that made Esme's nostrils flare. This smell was strong— stronger than any of the others— and so she noticed it clearly, its presence constant and steady. She had grown thankful for it, as those hours passed. Thankful that it kept her still. Thankful that it kept her_ safe._

So when it began to dissipate, to vanish into the air like smoke, she knew, then, what would happen.

Seconds did nothing— barely even scratched the surface— but as those seconds stretched into a minute, and then two, she began to notice the changes. It began on her face, where Esme caught the briefest twitch of a brow, the parting of her lips. Then she felt the fingers, their small movements jerking across the thick, warm covers. A foot was next, and then a shoulder, and before another second had passed, there was a gasp, so sharp and so sudden.

"Carlisle!"

At once, the room was full.

Her husband came first, arriving in mere seconds from the office just outside the room. He did not ask why she had called him— he had been expecting this, _waiting_ for it, for almost thirty minutes. He took one glance at the monitors— the heartbeat strong and steady, the respiratory rate acceptable— and waited, his hands braced on the foot of the bed. Alice came second, her angry, sullen face morphing into worry, and then pity. The boys came last, each on the heels of the other, but it was Emmett who pushed his way through, past Alice and his father, to stare, alight with sudden excitement, as they witnessed another twitch, and then a quiet, garbled sound.

"_Dad."_

The word broke Esme's heart.

"You're safe, sweetheart," was the first thing that Carlisle said. At once Esme saw the monitor pick up, the pulse rate increasing. "It's alright, darling… you're quite safe."

She moved again— her hand this time— and brought it, trembling, to her lips. Her motions were clumsy, almost as if she were drunk, but it did not faze Carlisle and he smiled, a little sadly.

"Can you hear me, love?" he asked, and this time, the eyelids twitched. Esme saw her fight, watched as she struggled to peel them open to face the light. At once, Alice yanked the curtains closed, making it a little easier. "I'd like you to open your eyes, Bella. Please."

And not a minute later, after the request had time to sink in, Esme saw what she had spent three days waiting for— she saw those eyelids flutter, and then squeeze, before they cracked open in slow, careful blinks to stare, unfocused, at Carlisle's smiling face.

"Hello sweetheart," he said, his smile plastered in place. She did not react, did not speak. "Can you hear me, Bella? Do you know where you are?"

The girl said nothing, her eyes swimming with sudden tears.

"Oh no, honey…" Esme could not help herself. Those tears were scalding, too much, and she wiped them away with the edge of the blanket, ignoring the way the girl's body jumped, her heart rate increasing.

"Give her a minute," Carlisle said and another tear fell, sliding down her face to disappear into her hair. "I'm sure she's a little confused."

The heart rate spiked again, this time more sharply, as she turned her head, wincing. Carlisle had warned them this might happen— that she would be stiff, and sore, even with the relief of the morphine— and that she would be confused. So terribly, and utterly confused…

"Shhh…" Carlisle's touch was cool, and grounding. She stared at him again, unspeaking. "It's alright. Take deep breaths, honey. You're okay."

Esme watched as she tried, and failed, to do as she was told. Carlisle waited— longer, perhaps, than Esme was comfortable with— until there was some illusion of ease, some semblance of calm restored.

"That's right. Just like that."

There was another silence— so stifled, and so long— and before anyone else could speak, Carlisle's voice rang out.

"I'd appreciate a moment of privacy, if you don't mind," he said and at once, she saw Alice's outrage. Emmett, too, looked as if he might protest, but when they smelled the tears, so strong and so frightened, they relented. Emmett said nothing, but backed slowly away from the bed and through the door, his gaze lingering on the girl for as long as he could see her. Jasper was gone before he'd finished speaking the words, slipping soft and silent into the dark hallway. Esme, too, backed away, but did not leave the room, and Alice, her face ablaze with a mingled sorrow and pity, leaned down to kiss her, her lips brushing a tear, before she, too was gone.

And all the while Bella stared, perplexed and afraid, as she fought to make sense of where she was and what had happened.

In the quiet, Esme could hear her heart hammering ferociously behind her broken ribs. The oxygen, still hissing, made her frantic breaths a little easier. Carlisle was unmoved, hovering over the bed with his fixed, unhappy smile, and the girl, staring wildly back at him, blinked, and cried, and then closed her eyes again.

"No, honey," said Carlisle, running a cold finger over her cheek. The touch made her flinch. "Don't close your eyes yet."

They opened again, this time with more focus.

"Do you know who I am, love?"

She nodded, quick and soft.

"Can you tell me?"

Her tears spilled over again.

"It's important, honey. Do you know where you are?"

This time, she shook her head.

"That's alright…" His light came out again, and Esme knew him well enough to see his concern. "That's alright, darling. Look here, please."

She followed his direction, squinting away when the light hit her eyes, but he persisted, unmoved by her discomfort. This was followed by more tests— she squeezed his fingers, pushed her feet against his palms. Her gaze continued to roam, bewildered and upset, and when she found Esme, crouching at her side, her face crumpled like wet paper and she began to weep.

"Oh honey…" Esme stood then, and ignoring her husband's worry, reached out to take that trembling, broken body in her arms. The cries were loud— great, painful, hiccuping sobs that carried well beyond the confines of the room— and they hurt, each sound like a blow to Esme's heart. Carlisle stood back, his smiling mask dropped like a hot coal, and he said nothing when Esme, desperate to soothe the terrible tremors that came next, slipped herself onto the gurney to wrap her arms around around her girl.

Esme did not know what to say as Bella wept— loud, keening sobs that told of every misery and every pain. Esme knew that Bella did not have the right words to use— that she may never find them, even when the she was well— but Esme did not need to hear them now. She did not need the soothing spell of speech to calm her, did not need the empty, hollow promises to make liars of them both. She did not need to hear the words because she already knew them— heard them ringing in the rough, desperate cries of the broken child in her arms, and in the perfect crystal shatter of her own unbeating heart.

"Oh, darling…" The words flowed like honey, liquid and smooth, but they did nothing to take away the sting. "Oh _sweetheart…"_

She turned, then, feeling the warm, wet face in the crook of her neck. Carlisle watched them, speechless with sorrow, but he did not dare to touch her, to touch _them. _Esme felt his hurt— his wretched guilt and sadness— but it was nothing to the suffering of the girl in her arms.

The girl who had loved them. The girl they had betrayed.

"You're safe, my darling," Esme said, speaking the only promise she knew she could keep. "You're safe, my sweet… I love you. We _all_ love you."

And when the girl spoke back, her voice rough and muffled, the words struck Esme like knives in her back. She bore them well— did not let them show in her voice or on her face— but she knew that Carlisle saw right through her, her hurt as obvious to him as his own. Her hands came up to smooth the hair away from that trembling, tearstained face and as she kissed her, pressing her lips against the warm, flushed cheek, the words came flowing out again, falling like stones at their feet.

"I'm sorry," Bella wept, the words barely audible through her tears. "I'm sorry, Esme. I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ I'm sorry."_

**A/N: I'm on a roll, guys... I've done absolutely nothing else all weekend. Thanks again for tuning in.**

**XO**


	9. Noise

**Chapter 8**

The noise was driving Alice mad.

Sitting on the porch that was slick with rain though the sky was clear and blue, Alice listened with a face like thunder, her heart so heavy it felt as though it might burst. She could hear the nightmare in the room upstairs, full of tears so strong that they were verging on hysterical. Tears that Alice had never heard before— not from Bella, so steady and so calm. Bella, who always took everything in stride. Bella, who had accepted their family with such ease, such _willingness,_ and who, it seemed, they had finally, truly _broken._

She had never felt like a monster before— not like Edward, who hated what he had become in his immortal life and not like Carlisle, who thought himself damned. Not like Jasper, who had embodied the very worst of their kind and who had killed so indiscriminately that his ghosts could fill cities. She had always thought herself better than that— kinder than her nature, and gentler than her instincts— but she wondered now if she'd been wrong. Perhaps they'd _all_ been wrong. Perhaps they really were the beasts they fought so hard against, destined to destroy innocence at every turn. How stupid they had been. How foolish. How _cruel._

Upstairs, the girl continued to weep.

That weeping, Alice knew, would be a good thing, in the long run. It was a release— a way for her to rid herself of the feelings, of the _trauma,_ of the last few days. She would not yet know just what had happened to bring her back to the world— would not know how they had pulled her, lifeless, from the sea, or how her ribs had been snapped in an effort to bring her back. She did not know how they had cared for her, so tenderly and carefully these last few days. She did not know that they hunted her pursuer, or that they were readying themselves to fight, but Alice suspected that she knew enough, knew_ too much,_ of what had happened to lead her here.

She would remember her tumble from the cliff, just as she remembered the sorrow that had come before. She would remember Edward's parting words, remember the way he'd left her, alone, on the forest trail. She would remember her father's worry before he'd been taken— the worry any father would have for a grieving child— and she would remember the way he had looked on the floor of their home, lifeless and pale. Alice knew she could imagine it over and over again, like a bad film. The blood, the gore…

And she would no doubt remember her own scream, terrified and breathless, as the awful truth of it came crashing down around her like a landslide.

Her father was dead. Her family had left her. Lord only knew what had happened to her mother, who hadn't answered any calls in weeks. Alice had checked— had found her cell phone in her bedroom back at Charlie's, and had skimmed through voicemails and calls, finding nothing from Renee.

The tears and the noise were only a reminder of Alice's betrayal— of the abandonment that Bella had suffered and the violence caused by their own carelessness.

Alice shook her head, burrowing her face in the her knees, and sighed, forcing herself to listen to the sounds from the house that Esme was trying to soothe. She did not need to see to know what was happening— the gasping cries, the breathless sobs… she could hardly breathe as it was, and yet, she struggled still. The noise hurt Alice more than any words could— it would be better, she thought, to have her rail at them. To have her scream herself hoarse, to banish them from her life for good, because at least then, they could grovel.

And Alice _would—_ she would beg on her knees to be forgiven, to be let back in, once she'd been so harshly and sharply evicted.

In the bedroom, she heard the beeping monitor begin to chirp. She knew Carlisle would be alarmed— he had been so meticulous, so careful to keep all of her levels just right while she slept, and Alice wondered only briefly how big this train wreck really was. The monitor chirped and beeped once more before it was cut short, and she heard, again, the gentle voice of her mother.

"Oh sweetheart… it's alright now, darling. It's alright…"

The noise made Alice feel shaky.

The racing heart, plainly evident through the hiccups and the sobs, reminded her of the sickroom, just as frantic, just as terrible as it had been when Carlisle had worked so diligently to bring her back. The sound frightened Alice, recalling those terrible memories that were etched in her mind as if carved in stone. She would never forget it— the look of her, dead on the sand, and then so poorly that Carlisle had forced a tube down her throat. There had been no noise like these ones then— no wailing or desperate, terrible cries— but still, there were sounds that harkened back to that uncertain time just days prior: her pulse throbbing, too fast and too weary. Her starved lungs screaming for air, bubbling in a mire of seawater that had nearly killed her. The blueness of her lips, the terrible paleness of her blanched, dead face…

She trembled again, trying to block her ears, when she felt Jasper's warmth behind her, his hands strong and steady. He eased her sorrow, relieved her _fear,_ but not even he could take it all away for with each new sound came a new pang of worry. She knew he could feel it, writhing in her like a living thing, but he touched her anyways, wrapping her in the comfort of his embrace.

"She's alright, Alice," he soothed and Alice knew by the sound of his voice that he shared her worry. Their worry for the girl. Their _terror_ that they might, once again, lose her…

"Carlisle is with her," he went on, and she began to feel the tendrils working, easing their way through to fight her nerves. "He's not concerned… not for her body."

_Only for her mind,_ Alice thought bitterly, _and the terrible wrongs we've done._

"We've done this, Jas."

"Yes."

"We must answer for it."

"Yes," he said again. "Yes, I think we must. But there are other hurts, Alice— ones that we cannot claim."

"We left…"

"And we'll own that mistake," he said at once. "We'll take whatever blows come in return, because we _did_."

"She called out for her dad."

"She was only half lucid," he returned at once. "Not thinking clearly."

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does."

Alice pursed her lips.

"She'll grieve," he went on. "We all will. But she won't be alone this time, and we won't let anything else hurt her."

"We can't make promises."

"No," he agreed, and though she could not see him, she could feel the icy resolve, the immovable confidence. "We can't make any promises. But I'll do her one better, Alice— I'll make her a _guarantee."_

She glanced, then, at his hard, unmoving face. She loved everything about her husband— his empathy, his skill, his _heart—_ and she knew all-too-well the strength his stubbornness. When Jasper said a thing, he meant it, and once that thought was voiced, it was as good as true. If he made his sister a promise, that promise would be kept. If he gave her a _guarantee,_ that pact was as precious to him as gold.

"And what might that be?" she asked, resting her cheek on his shoulder. She felt his fingers in her hair, soft and soothing. "What guarantee can you give her?"

"I can guarantee that we will do everything in our power— everything on the face God's green earth— to make sure that our mistakes are never repeated again."

Alice scowled.

"_I'm_ not going to hurt her," she returned.

"No one is," he said. "She won't ever be alone again… not unless she _wants_ to be."

As the crying died down, so too did Alice's tension. There was a breath of relief, so deep and so strong, and Jasper sighed, his lips buried in her hair.

"You don't own all of her hurts, darlin'," he finished, and Alice turned it over in her head. "We might own some of them, it's true, but I think there's someone else who deserves _that_ particular burden of responsibility."

Alice scowled.

Ten calls. Ten _voicemails_, left in varying degrees of rage, on that old burner phone he had taken with him to South America. In the first one, she'd pleaded. In the second, she'd commanded. By the third, she was irate, and there had been many similar calls that followed. Shouting and yelling, crying and blaming… every bit of the sordid tale recited in terrible, vivid detail, so that he would not miss a _thing._

Alice had never been vindictive before, but she certainly was now. As she reached again for her phone, her thumb hovering over the familiar number, she sighed, pressing it again.

This time, it went to voicemail after only one ring. Her eleventh message gave him only two, short words.

"She's awake."

* * *

Emmett was not accustomed to feeling useless.

Standing like a statue, like a gargoyle, at the door, he waited, immovable and untouchable as he listened to the outpouring of grief from within. He had heard it rolling like a storm, her frantic heartbeat, rising by the second, and her terrible, awful cries. When her composure had broken, falling to pieces as her tears rose to the surface, so too did his own, and when Carlisle had asked them for privacy, he'd been almost unwilling to give it.

She was _his_ family, too. His family, so newly risen from the dead. His family, finally waking, and finally _talking._

"_I'm sorry, Esme,"_ she'd cried, and he'd listened with a furious, raging guilt. _"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."_

It had taken every ounce of self-control not to put his fist through the wall.

From within, the noise drove him to absolute madness— the same madness which had sent Alice to the yard, in a bid to escape it. He could see her there now, wrapped up in Jasper, as they listened to the rise and fall of noise. He could see her anger, her complete and utter _outrage_ at sounds that came from that sad little girl, _their_ girl. Their _sister._

He took his only comfort from his mother, who had pressed that child so closely to her heart that there was no room left for him. There was not even room for _Carlisle,_ for all his hovering, and though Emmett felt a prick of jealousy, there could be no real contempt. Esme had always been a mother first, even when her children were too old to need her, and it would be a fool indeed who tried to come between her and this pitiful, wounded creature now.

"Hush, my darling…" Esme's whisper carried through the hall. "There, now… deep breaths, sweetheart. It's alright."

Slowly, as if the girl were coming back to herself, Emmett heard the infinitesimal decrease in her heart rate, the slow, but steady return of breaths. He was sure this heartache hurt her in more ways than one— her ribs, still broken, would not thank her for such abuse— and though he had no memory to empathize with the pain of it, he thought that he could _imagine._

Through the crack in the door, he watched as Carlisle reached out to press his fingers to the pulse point at her throat. He'd turned off her monitor, the beeping so incessant that it grew tiresome, but he concentrated now, his hand coming up around her arm. Carlisle had no need for tools to check her blood pressure— his grip, sensitive and strong, could do just as well.

Emmett felt his ire rise when his father reached back for the discarded oxygen, carefully and gently placing a mask over her nose and mouth. The anger tasted acrid, bitter on his tongue, and he longed to run, to _hit_ something.

Violence, he knew, would only be a temporary fix for the agitation that had made its home in his heart. The urge to track, the urge to _hunt, _was powerful, but it would not be enough to stifle his anger or his disappointment.

He knew that he could not leave now— not when he was so desperate to soothe the terror in that room— and though he wanted nothing more than to take action_,_ he forced himself to pause, to wait.

Hunting the assailant was satisfying to him— it gave him a purpose, an outlet. There was nothing else for him to do at the house, not when she had been in that medicated, untouchable sleep, and his own obsolescence had infuriated him to reckless temper. Emmett had not been content to wait for a change that _might_ happen, like his mother and his sister. He wanted to _act,_ to do something to take away the suffering, and without Carlisle's knowledge and skill, there had been nothing for him to contribute at the house.

He and Jasper made a good team— they hunted and they tracked with focused, careful determination. He had made himself as useful as he could by volunteering to eliminate the threat. He could do nothing for her in sleep— not while she didn't know him, or care— and so he did his part by seeking out the offender, the _killer,_ who had taken away so much.

He liked the rush of danger. He liked the excitement of _action._ He liked to serve his family, and he liked to protect— especially _Bella,_ who was so completely and utterly defenseless against them that it was almost laughable.

And so when the crying came to an end, the sound of her anguish finally coming to a close, Emmett moved again, peeking his head inside the room.

He could see the toll it had taken on Esme, and on Carlisle, too, as they watched, and waited, for another round to start.

Emmett had seen Bella sleeping before. He had observed her, giddy with amusement, as she rambled nonsense from dreams that he would never know. Edward, too, had liked to watch her, for it was only in her dreams that he came close to hearing her truest, most intimate thoughts. Fantastical they might be, but honest, and unguarded_— _something that she struggled to share with him while she was awake, and which drove Edward absolutely mad.

And so, had he not been so used to the sight of her slumber, Emmett might have mistaken this quiet, sombre calm for more of the same. She certainly looked the part— her eyes shut, her body still— but this time, it was pure exhaustion that immobilized her, not real sleep. Her body was tired— he had known it would be, after all she had endured— and she craved sleep as if she had been starved, despite her days of quiet, unnatural slumber. This tiredness looked heavy, as if she bore the weight of the world and more, and though Esme was whispering, smoothing away the whisps of hair at her temples and her cheeks, Emmett knew there was no way she would sleep, so tormented and so sad.

Her cheeks, pale again after the flush of waking, were stained by the salt of tears. Her hands, so limp and soft before, were clenched around the sheets now, making wrinkles in the linen. The nasal cannula had been discarded now that her nose was blocked from crying, and it had been replaced by that flimsy plastic mask, beneath which her breath hitched on every inhale as if, even now, she were in danger of more tears. Emmett did not know where they would come from— surely, she had none left?— but this question did not stop him as he took one step, and then another, towards the bed. Esme did not move as he came a little nearer, did not spare him so much as a passing glance, but that did not stop him either as he reached out to stroke the thin, delicate hand around the sheets, carefully prying the grip away to engulf it in his own.

It was the first time he had touched her since she'd come back to them and he was at once consumed by the softness of her, the warmth. He recalled what it had been like to hold her in his arms— her feather-light frame, her constant movement, even when she tried to be still. She could not help the thrum of blood through every vein beneath her skin, or the steady, quiet breathing that shifted the very air around her, and both of these things had fascinated him, intrigued him. He had spent so much time in the vicinity of humans throughout his many years that they had somehow ceased to marvel him, but he had never dared to touch one, to _hug_ one.

He had certainly never _loved_ one, and as he held that small, pale hand, he felt again the stirrings of life between his fingers.

She was impossibly weak, this tiny little thing, even when she was at full strength. It had amused him, piqued his interest and his curiosity as much as it had bothered Edward, who would fret and worry over her many frailties. He did not like that she was so vulnerable, that a careless swipe of a hand or a brief and uncontrolled squeeze could crack her skull or shatter her ribs. She was a danger enough to herself. Emmett had shaken with unabashed laughter whenever she would trip over her own feet, or over nothing at all, and it had all been more than worth it to him, when he'd caught sight of Edward's absolute despair.

But now, watching this suffering, there was nothing at all funny about her many human weaknesses.

Had she been as durable as them, her leap from that cliff wouldn't have done a thing to hurt her. She would not have drifted, unconscious and half-drowned, five miles out to sea. She would not have needed any intervention— no breathing tube, no CPR— and her ribs would be whole, and intact. She would not be wearing an oxygen mask to meet her most basic needs, and she certainly would not be crying for a sorrow she could not control.

The tremble of her body and the moisture in her eyes made him angry— not with _her_, but with _all_ of them for the careless damage they had caused.

Emmett hadn't wanted to leave her— hadn't dared to raise his hand in support of his brother when he'd asked, _demanded,_ their cooperation. Not even when his wife had fought him, had grown so angry that it was a miracle she hadn't hit him. He had not agreed to _this_, his own, selfish interests driving out all of the reason, the _sense_ of Edward's argument, but still, he had complied. He had followed his family's wishes, as they all had, and had walked out as if she had meant nothing to them, as if she hadn't mattered. As if, as Edward had told her, they were simply incompatible, her natural human failings simply too tedious, too great a liability, to keep in their company for even a minute longer. Emmett had expected their departure to be more climactic, more troublesome. He had expected Edward to spend hours convincing her that what he said was true, and so when he'd come back not half an hour after he'd set out, it had been shock, not anger, that had risen in his heart.

"_Done already?" _Emmett had asked, watching his brother's resignation, his sorrow. _"You're sure she bought it?"_

_Edward had hissed at him, his pale face wild and feral._

"_Yes, I'm sure," he'd snapped and he turned away, trembling. "I'm sure she bought it. There's no doubt in my mind."_

He was pulled from his memory with a violent jolt when, beneath him, still trembling and weak, the girl began to cry again. The sound was softer this time, and muffled, and though she tried to hide it with her clumsy hand, she could not wipe the tear fast enough to stop him seeing. It leaked through her fingers, rolling down her cheek, and Emmett caught it with the pad of his thumb.

When he spoke, his voice was hardly louder than whisper.

"Hush now…" She turned to him, her eyes wide. "You're alright, kid. It's alright."

And then, though he did not know why, or even _how_, she did something he did not expect. Emmett was used to her withdrawal— a natural human instinct that marked him as a danger, as a threat. He supposed he _was,_ in a way, more intimidating than the rest of them, by the sheer force of his size alone. Little Alice, though just as dangerous to any human, had the upper hand when it came to making friends, for she was sweet where he was gruff, small where he was large. Before they'd left, he had overcome that barrier just a little, earning her trust in bits and pieces over that long and happy summer she'd spent among them. Emmett had envied the way she'd grown close to Alice— had watched that blossoming friendship with somewhat bitter eyes— but it had only made his successes all the sweeter, his triumph all the greater, when she had finally invited him in.

So when she struggled, her breath shallow as her ribs ached and smarted, Emmett could only watch in alarm. Carlisle reached for her, urging her carefully, gently, back to bed, and Esme gave a quick and worried _"no",_ but she fought them, struggling pitifully against their guiding hands, to rise. She stared at him, her wild eyes searching his hands, and then his face, and when she reached for him, so slow and so trembling, he knew at once what she wanted, and he would not deny her. He caught her as she fell, lurching drunkenly towards him with sudden, urgent force, and he felt her wrap her arms about his neck, her face pressed into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

"I've got you," he said, and he felt a chair against his legs. When he sat back she came with him, all of her frail weight coming down in a rush. "Easy, doll. I've got you now. It's alright."

Beneath the tears, beneath the terrible, quaking tremors, Emmett heard her whisper, so soft and so faint that he almost missed it altogether.

"Are you real, Emmett?" she asked, and he felt a burn like fire in his chest. "Are you real?"

When he spoke, his throat was tight.

"Yeah, honey. I'm real…"

"Are you sure?" Her fingers touched his chin, his face. "Are you _sure?_ I've thought it so many times— _felt_ it so many times— I _need_ you to be real. Oh, _please_, be real…"

Her voice broke, then, and her arms lost their feeble strength as she collapsed. The burn in his chest erupted into total, furious grief, but he held it back, kept himself in check. She was crying now—_ really_ crying— and he could not stem the flow, so he simply let himself hold her, _feel_ her, as the floodgates broke and the dams were overrun.

"I'm real, honey. I'm real. And so are _you."_

"Please don't leave me," she begged, and this time, it was fury that rose like a snake in his heart. Fury at himself, fury at his _brother. _"Please don't go, Emmett. Please don't leave."

He had never spoken a truer, easier word in all his life.

"_Never."_

**A/N: Thanks for sticking with me. We're coming to some changes soon, and I hope they'll come easily. I had a hard time getting this chapter out on paper, and I won't lie... I'm still not completely satisfied with it. I couldn't decide whose POV would work best, so I settled for a split halfway through. **

**Some of you have been asking about Bella's POV, and I'll let you know now that I'm undecided about whether or not I want to include it. My original vision for this story was to focus more on the family, but I'm starting to wonder if I need her perspective to break up some of the repetition. We'll see how the next chapter ends up, and go from there.**

**XO**


	10. Confusion

**Chapter 9**

"Carlisle?"

"Right here, Bella."

The room was dark, and altogether silent.

"What time is it?"

"Only four," Carlisle replied. "Still quite early. You should sleep, if you can."

"Okay."

"Does your head still ache?"

"Yes."

"Badly?"

Even in the dark, he could see the way her shoulders hunched. The room was utterly black— the curtains, which Esme had drawn just hours prior, hid every hint of light from the overcast moon outside. She had not slept long, and not at all well— only a few hours of fitful rest interspersed by long minutes of vivid wakefulness, in which she always asked the same questions.

Carlisle wasn't sure if it was the concussion, or if there was something more serious at play.

"Bella? Is it _very_ sore?"

In response to his query, she only shrugged. This, he knew, was telling— it was her habit to deny her ailments and her struggles. She did not admit them even when they caused her pain, and as a physician, he felt his own frustration at these kinds of answers.

"You must tell me, love," he said, and even now, she flinched. "Please. It's important that I know."

"Will you make me sleep?"

He frowned at her, though she could not see it.

"You _need_ sleep, Bella," he admonished and she said nothing, her face hidden from him. "But no. I will not force you."

At once, he saw her shoulders relax.

"Then yes, it hurts," she said and he sighed, his lips pursed. He had given her Tylenol already, and a dose of ibuprofen before she'd fallen asleep, as much for her chest as for her head. In theory, these should have eased the tension, the sting of injury marked by the healing, but still tender wound on the back of her scalp. It had been the least of his worries over the past few days— not so terrible that it would cause further concern, and not as troublesome as those cracked and broken ribs. She did not even like to admit _that_ pain, when it bothered her, but when it came to ailments of the chest, his eye was better trained.

He knew that when she slouched, her sides were hurting. He knew that when her breathing turned shallow, there was a sting. He knew that steady, gentle pressure could help, and he made sure to always check the tape. This small intervention eased her discomfort somewhat, though not enough to let her sleep through the night.

She would not take any more of his sedatives, and Carlisle was determined that he would not force her.

She shifted when he joined her, seating himself on the edge of the plush, warm bed. She could not see him in the blackness, not even when he was this close, and so he reached out carefully, taking her hand to ease her anxiety.

"It will help, if you lie down," he said, and at once, she shook her head. "The more you try to relax, the easier it will be."

He smelled the salt before he heard her sniffle.

"Hush now…" She sniffed again, and this time, he saw her wipe her face on her sleeve. "Just _try_, darling. It's important for you to rest."

She said nothing and Carlisle sighed, tucking her hand back beneath the blankets. She shivered when he rose.

"Where are you going?"

"To my office, to see what else I can drum up for that headache," he replied. "I know it's bothering you, but I'm not sure what else I have on hand."

This, strictly speaking, was not true— Carlisle knew exactly what was stored on his overflowing shelves. He knew every pill and ointment, every salve and tincture, but he would search again, no matter how fruitlessly, for something, _anything,_ that might help.

"Oh."

"Alice is right outside, should you need anything. And I'm sure Esme would be more than happy to come and sit with you…"

"No," she said at once. "No. I'm okay. But Carlisle?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Will you come back?"

Always the same question, and always the same answer.

"Of course, sweetheart," he said, and he could tell, even in the dark, that she did not quite believe him. "Of course I will. Relax now. Close your eyes."

She obeyed, but rest did not come.

* * *

When Alice found her later, she had managed to catch a moment of elusive sleep, though how deep, or how restful, not a soul but Bella knew.

In the quiet of the dawn, in a house as still as a grave, it was as if the worries of the world had finally fallen silent, allowing for this brief moment of reprieve, of rest. Alice slipped into the room like clockwork— it was her turn, she knew, to keep her eye on the sleeping girl— and it would be her turn still when she woke, just ten minutes hence. Her visions had still not cleared— that infernal fog was still clouding every choice and outcome— but her searching had revealed to her this much, at the very least. Someone always had their eye on her— Carlisle from his office, Emmett from the bedside, and sometimes Esme, who would come and spend the evenings reading to her, or singing.

In the quiet of the night, Alice could almost forget the worries of the day and why it was so essential for Bella to be watched, observed. It had been three days since her waking in this very same room, when she'd cried her heart out to Esme and had fallen asleep in Emmett's arms. Three days since she'd first spoken. Three days of confusion, and three days of careful, worried maneuvering around what they all knew to be a tinderbox, just waiting to blow.

Carlisle had told them that she was concussed from whatever had caused the injury on the back of her head. He had told them that her lack of oxygen— both because of the water, and because of her broken ribs— might only exacerbate her symptoms. They were told to watch for signs, for indications of pain, or of undiagnosed ailments that his trained, meticulous eyes might have missed in his eagerness to treat the obvious, the dangerous.

He had told them that she would be confused— that she might forget what they had told her, or ask the same thing twice— but he had not warned them about the mood swings, and about the terrible, nervous anxiety that had taken over almost every facet of her life.

Every waking minute, and every waking hour, she spent her time in an agony of terror, of absolute and unmovable fear that what she was seeing was not real. It had taken Alice a full day to understand, to _really_ understand what she had been asking, and what she would _still_ ask, when the fear hit home again. It was always the same, no matter how they tried to soothe her, and always the same reaction, no matter how many times they told her.

"_Are you real, Alice?" _This had been the first question she'd asked when Alice had finally forced herself to enter the bedroom, to face the girl she'd come to love as her sister. She'd been in Emmett's arms by then, stricken with tears and weak with crying, but she'd found it in her to ask, and to worry. The question had alarmed both Emmett and Carlisle, the latter trying to pry her away, to _see,_ but she had clung to their brother with such an output of force that Carlisle had relented, perturbed.

"_Are you real, too?"_

"_Yes,"_ Alice had told her, though she could hardly believe it herself. _"Yes, Bella. I'm real."_

It had been Jasper, spying from the doorway, who had helped to explain it, though this explanation brought up far more questions than it did answers.

"She feels… hollow," he had said, and Alice did not miss the way his hand came up to his chest when he did. "She feels _empty."_

"Is she…"

"There's a lot to read," he admitted, "but hardly any way to describe it. I can…"

And when he'd showed her, Alice had recoiled at once, forcing him to draw it back with a snap, leaving her shaken and unhappy. The feeling was like ice— like a cold, black void— and it brought her so much grief that she pushed it back into obscurity.

"Don't _do_ that," she'd complained, and though he didn't apologize, he did not do it again. "You know how I hate it…"

"I know."

Alice had only stared at the girl, wondering and _worrying._

"Alice?"

At once, her attention returned to the bed.

Just as she'd been before, Bella lay quietly on her pillows and her sheets, no longer bound to Carlisle's gurney, but allowed a bed, now— a proper bed, even by Esme's standards. It was a new one— not the old metal monstrosity that had dominated the space before— and though Bella didn't seem to notice this, she didn't seem to mind it, either. Alice had not missed Esme's little changes to the furnishings and decor— the spare room, the largest in the house after Carlisle and Esme's, had slowly but surely been transformed into _Bella's_ room.

She was watching Alice now, her wide, dark eyes fixed on her face before her incredulity fell away and melted instead into concern, and then to the uneasy, unsettled acceptance that had become her norm in days of late.

"Good morning, Bella," Alice said, and her smile did not reach her eyes. Bella was observant— she noticed the stiffness, the sobriety in Alice's greeting— and what little ease she had been feeling flickered and died in an instant to be replaced by a quiet, gnawing worry. She blinked, glancing around her room for what must have been the hundredth time, before she frowned again and sighed, her lips forming that familiar, heartbreaking question.

"Are you here, Alice?" she asked, and at once, Alice was on the bed beside her. The speed made the girl jump, wincing when she pulled at her ribs. Alice braced them with her own hand, her cold skin soothing the angry bruises that had yet to fade, before she answered, and Bella leaned into the touch with relish.

"I'm here."

"Are you going to stay?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

When she moved again, shifting to rest her head in Alice's lap, Alice was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Here she was, this sister they'd almost lost, and yet she still felt so far, so _distant,_ that Alice had begun to wonder if she was really here at all. She could feel her body, so warm and so weak in her own able arms, but there was something missing that Alice could not describe— something vital, and something sore.

When she began to run her fingers through Bella's long, soft hair, much as Jasper had done for _her, _she saw her eyes fall closed as she sighed, her body sinking deeper into the pillows. They sat like this for a little while, each contemplating the other in perfect silence, before the girl spoke again, this time a little softer.

"Alice?"

"Hm?"

"Where are we?"

Alice's fingers paused.

"You're at the house, Bella." Her words were careful, controlled. "At _our_ house, remember?"

"Oh."

In the doorway she saw Carlisle, standing in the shadows so as not to be noticed. His face was unhappy, his honey eyes fixed on the girl, but he did not enter, did not intervene, as he listened to their chatter.

"Are you alright, Bella?"

"Mhm."

Alice felt her fingers, so warm and trembling, reach out to grab the leg of her pants, as if she would hold her there.

"I'm not going to leave…"

"Why not?"

Alice sighed.

"Because I love you," she said, and this time, the girl laughed. The sound was short— more of a sniff than anything else— and devoid of any humour. "I _do,_ Bella," she insisted. "I wish you wouldn't doubt me."

When she shifted again, Alice saw the burning curiosity in her gaze.

"Alice?"

"Yes?"

"How did you get here?"

This time, Carlisle _did_ enter, his concern growing with each passing minute.

"We drove," she said, and Bella snorted. "Why is that funny?"

"It's not… not really."

"Then what?"

She fell silent, turning her face back towards the bed.

"You _shouldn't_ be here," said Bella finally, after a long silence that made Alice anxious. "I don't know why you are. Or _how."_

When Carlisle touched her, she jumped.

"I think you should rest, sweetheart," he said, and she started, shaking her head. "Yes. I think you need it."

"I just…"

"Please?" He pulled her, quickly, away from Alice's lap, before she was laid back down on the pillows of the bed. She fought his hold, pulled feebly against his guiding touch, but Carlisle was firm and stubborn.

Her hands scrabbled for Alice like a lifeline.

"I'm not going," she soothed, and though Alice had no need for sleep she lay, quiet and still, on the pillows by Bella's side. "I'm not going anywhere, honey. Just relax, like Carlisle says."

At once, Bella curled herself back towards her sister, her face pressed into the crook of Alice's neck.

"Are you going to leave?"

"No."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

It was surprising to Alice, when she fell asleep so quickly. The sleep was not deep, it was true, and not nearly as restorative as she might have hoped, but it was enough that Carlisle let his consternation show, his concern still growing.

"She shouldn't be _this_ confused," he said, and for the first time since Bella had awoken, Alice felt the return of that niggling, gnawing worry. "I don't know why she is."

"But her scans…"

"Were clear," said Carlisle, his brow furrowed. He had taken her, using her head wound as a pretense, to have her brain scanned by the CT machine at Forks Memorial Hospital. Alice wasn't sure what he had been looking for— swelling maybe, or a bleed— but to their great and lasting relief, he had found nothing of concern.

"Perhaps the stress?"

"Maybe," he sighed, resting his knuckles on her flushed, sleeping cheek. "Maybe. I don't know."

"What more should we do?"

"Nothing but what we _have_ been doing, I suppose," he answered slowly. "There's nothing more that we _can _do, while she's still injured. Her ribs are healing— though they would knit a little faster if she'd stop moving around so much— and the laceration on her head is closed now. Even her lungs have cleared, though she's still coughing."

Alice waited, readjusting her arms so that most of Bella's body was on the bed, and not on _her_. She waited until the girl had settled, her frown smoothing into easy oblivion, before she spoke again.

"Could there have been damage?" asked Alice, peering down at the familiar face she could not read. "Beyond what the scans show?"

"Unlikely," said Carlisle, "but in theory, I suppose it's possible. Hypoxic brain injuries can take time to appear, and they wouldn't likely show on immediate scans…"

Alice only sighed, resting her head on the pillow beside the sleeping girl, who neither noticed nor cared that she was there. Carlisle did not finish his thought— he didn't need to, for the sentiment was clear— and Alice pressed a kiss to that smooth, warm temple.

_If only a kiss would be enough,_ she thought, _to heal every kind of wound._

* * *

"Carlisle?"

"What is it, dear?"

Alice watched as his examination halted, his face betraying none of his unease. His fingers lingered on her wrist, taking her pulse with each passing second, and she didn't seem to mind, or to notice. She watched him with a strange and curious listlessness that had taken hold that afternoon, and though all of her tests had come back, there was nothing to give a reason for her strange disorientation.

"Where's Esme?"

"I'm right here, sweet." Their mother appeared at once, having waited on tenterhooks for another summons. "Right here, darling."

Bella frowned, her face downturned.

"And who else?"

"Jasper, and Emmett," said Carlisle gently. "Do you remember, Bella? You spoke with Emmett just last night."

"I remember."

"Can you look here, please?" He had his penlight out again and she followed his directions without complaint, blinking when he shone that light into her face to watch the movement of her pupils. The light did not hurt her today— sometimes, she found it too bright, too stinging— but she did not seem to buy Carlisle's smile either, so false, and so bothered.

"You're upset."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you _are,"_ she returned, and he did not try to argue it again. She turned away from him, looking instead for Esme, and then to Alice, who were just as morose, just as troubled_._

"I'm _sorry."_

Carlisle turned away from her, furious with himself. Alice saw the anger on his face— anger at his own weakness, his inability to control himself for even a minute, so she would not see his outrage and his worry. Alice felt much the same— the girl did not need Carlisle's hurt on top of her own, and though she couldn't be truly _angry_ with her father, she did feel a quick, sharp annoyance.

"No, honey…" Esme came forward, but Bella would not have it, turning herself away. Esme's jaw tightened, her eyes flashing at her husband, who did not see. When she touched the warm, stiff shoulder she was shrugged away, and Alice smelled the salt of tears, so strong and so bitter.

When Esme sighed Bella flinched, but it did not stop Alice's hand, reaching out to stroke her thin, curled back.

"Don't," she whispered, and Bella froze, her frown glued in place. "Don't cry. There's been enough of that, and it won't help."

But Bella, resolute, simply pressed her face into her pillow.

"I'm _sorry,_ Alice," she said, her voice muffled and unhappy. "I didn't mean to do this to you. I didn't mean to_ take_ you."

"_Take_ me?" Alice was bewildered, confused_. _"Honey, I haven't been taken anywhere. We're home, Bella. _Home."_

The girl only sniffled, her tears falling all the faster.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and when Alice pulled away, the girl didn't say another word. The room was full now, all five members of their family listening with mild disbelief, the words so senseless and so strange. Alice met Jasper's stare with consternation and he only shook his head, so minute and so uncertain that she might have missed it, had she not been looking.

"_Nothing's changed,"_ he whispered, too soft and too low for Bella's human ears to make out. _"Still the same as she was before."_

Alice growled, her frustration coming to a head as she kissed the girl again, her lips brushing away a trail of saltwater that had tumbled down her cheek.

"We're right here with you," said Alice, but the girl did not move, did not react. "I wish you could see that, Bella. We're all here for _you."_

"You shouldn't be."

"Yes, we _should."_

"I'm sorry."

"And I wish I knew_ why,"_ Alice breathed, and she felt the shiver, the shake. "I wish you'd tell me _why,_ Bella, so I could make it right."

And then she turned again, this time a little too fast, before she sagged.

"Because I didn't_ mean_ to."

"Didn't mean to what?"

Bella stared at her, as if in disbelief.

"I didn't mean to _hurt_ you."

"You haven't hurt me..."

"Then why are you_ here?"_

Alice didn't know what to say, and so she said the only thing that came to mind.

"Because I love you." The words were softer now, weaker. "Because I've _missed_ you, Bella…"

"Where's my dad, Alice?"

The question was so abrupt— such a sudden and uneasy shift— that it took a moment for it to sink in. Alice stared at her, a peculiar pity roiling up in her chest like a wave, and when she looked to Carlisle he stepped forward, replacing Alice in an instant.

She retreated to Jasper, who watched the scene with burning curiosity. Carlisle, kneeling carefully by the edge of the bed, spoke with such softness that it was a wonder she could hear him at all, but even though she still shied from his distress, she did not pull away completely.

"What do you remember, sweetheart?" Carlisle asked, and Alice saw at once the tremor that ran down her spine. "About Charlie?"

"I…"

She began to shake.

"It's alright, Bella. Deep breaths, remember?"

"Is he here, Carlisle?"

He froze, frowning.

"No, honey."

At once, her face was hard.

"Where _is_ he?"

"Do you remember what happened?" Carlisle asked again, and Alice saw the sudden horror of recollection as it passed over her face.

"Yes."

Unable to help himself Carlisle reached out to her, so hesitant and careful, as if he wasn't sure she'd come. She went willingly enough, letting him take her, _hold _her, but Alice could see her darting gaze, her mind still racing.

"Do you remember what happened _after?"_ Carlisle pressed, and again, she nodded.

"Good, sweetheart. That's good…"

"Where _is_ he?"

Carlisle simply stared, bewildered and sad.

"I'm not sure I understand, honey."

"Is he here?"

"No."

She shivered, her face falling. When she spoke again her voice was small, almost childlike.

"Why not?"

"Because he's gone, sweetheart," said Carlisle, and this time, she flinched. "I'm so sorry, Bella. He's gone."

"But…"

They waited, listening to the sounds of her struggle, and Alice understood the truth of her confusion just a moment before it was made clear to the rest of them. She heard the words, heard her own gasp of realization, before everything fell immediately into place, clicking like a puzzle.

"But so am _I."_

And at once, the room was alive.

Esme, bone-white and furious, turned away from the bed to hide the anger on her face. Emmett sighed, torn between his relief and his pity. Jasper closed his eyes, the realization hitting like a bullet, and Alice was once again on the bed, where Carlisle held her, unmoving.

"No," said Alice, her voice a whisper in the dark. "No, Bella. No, you're not."

The girl stared at her, and Alice was not sure her words had really struck.

"I… I jumped," she said, halting and slow, and Alice saw the rise of embarrassment in the flush of her cheeks. "I _know_ I did, Alice… I remember."

"Yes, you did…"

Carlisle held her a little tighter.

"It was so _dark."_

"I know…"

"And it _hurt."_

Jasper turned away this time, unable to relinquish his own residual guilt at the pain that he had caused her, no matter how necessary. She pulled away from Carlisle, shaking her head with terrible disbelief, before she glanced down at the bruises on her ribs, realization dawning.

"I… _you?_"

"You're not dead, honey," Alice said, and when she began to shake, Alice was not surprised. "You're _alive,_ Bella. So, _so_ alive…"

And then she saw understanding settle like a fine, cold mist. She saw it first in the brightness of her eyes, widening like saucers, and the breath that hitched in her chest. She saw it in the tremor, making her grip weaken on Carlisle's arm, and again in her whimper, so soft, but so _loud. _

"You're not dead, Bella… and you're home now. It's alright. _You're _alright."

"Oh, Alice." The words came in a whisper, in a rush. "Alice…"

"Shhh… it's alright…"

"No, it's not." Her voice was small— so small that Alice wasn't sure she'd meant to be heard at all. "It's _not_ alright."

"It _will_ be…"

"No, it won't." Her cheeks were mottled pink, her eyes bright with something new that looked to Alice like it might be anger. "It _won't _be alright."

"I'm so sorry, honey…"

"_Don't."_

Alice, her words dying in her throat, did as she was told.

"Just… go, Alice." The words were dead, flat. "Just leave me alone."

She began to cry again, and Alice backed away.

"I'm sorry…"

"Yeah, I know. But I don't get it, Alice… I don't understand. I don't know why you even _bothered."_

* * *

They ran on the wind, blasting through the cold in a furious rush of limbs and feet, flying through the forest to leave that house behind. Jasper could hardly bear the climate in that room. He couldn't bear the worry, the _fear, _and when that fear had morphed, changing into something toxic and stifling, he'd had no choice but to leave, to take himself away.

Emmett had followed, a silent sentry to guard him in his furious flight. He did not need to be watched— he posed no danger to anyone but himself, no threat to life or limb— but he appreciated the company nevertheless. Emmett always did a good job of holding himself together— he did not let his emotions run rampant, did not let them seep from him like a bad smell to infect everyone else around him. He did not _project _them at Jasper, in a flurry of worry and nerves, and Jasper appreciated that particular skill more than he could say. He was sure his brother felt things— in fact, if he reached out, he knew he'd find the same outrage, the same guilt— but he did not, and Emmett did not force him, and together, they simply ran.

Around them, the air was blissfully, wonderfully quiet. There was nothing here to strain them— no crying, no fear— and there was nothing but the sound of the forest, teeming with life that did not impose itself upon them. There were birds, high in the canopy, and the fluttering wings of insects. Squirrels and mice, scurrying through the undergrowth, and far off, just on the edge of his perception, perhaps a deer, or an elk. This creature avoided them— even at this distance, Jasper knew it could sense their speed, their deadly strength, and so it gave them a wide berth, never ranging closer than two miles from their trail.

When they stopped, it was sudden— in a deep, cavernous ravine high up in the mountains, surrounded by nothing but loose rocks and plants.

"_Shit_ Jas," laughed Emmett, trailing down into the hole behind him. "You're goddamn fast, you know that?"

Jasper only grinned.

"You want to catch something?" he asked, and though he was tempted, Jasper shook his head. "Not even _that?"_

On the breeze, not too far up the ravine, came the tantalizing, rich scent of a predator. It was still too far to determine exactly what kind of beast it was, but it made his mouth water, and his throat burn. The scent was tempting— in response to the smell, he felt his muscles tense, his eyes darken... all the hallmarks of his hunger, his _thirst. _But Jasper was not ready for the hunt— he did not want to spoil this calm, easy moment with yet another thrill, no matter how joyous it might be.

Instead, he simply sat, leaning back against an uprooted tree as he soaked in the quiet, the _calm. _ Emmett did not push him— did not coax or tease as he might have any other day— and he simply waited with him, his arms folded across his chest.

When the silence grew too long, his brother spoke again.

"Is it very difficult?" he asked, and Jasper did not miss the sympathy, the _pity_, in his voice. His eyes flashed a warning.

"It's…" He reached for the right words. "It's… _a lot."_

"Hm."

"You're quieter than the others," he explained, and Emmett frowned at him, confused. "You don't _shout_ your feelings at me, if that makes any sense at all."

Emmett chuckled.

"Edward says the opposite," he replied, and at once, Jasper was on his feet. "He says I'm the loudest…"

"Don't talk to me about _him_ right now," Jasper said, and his voice was sharp enough, _rude_ enough, to elicit silence. Emmett only raised an eyebrow. "I can't think of anything I want to talk about _less_, right now, than Edward."

The silence hung between them, suddenly thick with unspoken tension. Jasper lamented this shift— the loss of calm, and of ease— but there was nothing else for it. He would _not_ discuss Edward here, in this place of calm, for he did not want to ruin the aura, the vibe.

Emmett, it seemed, had different ideas.

"Angry, are we?"

Jasper wheeled on him at once.

"Of_ course_ I'm angry!" His temper, so frayed and so worn, seemed to snap in an instant. "Aren't _you?"_

"You'd know better than most," he returned and it was true— Jasper _did_ know. He knew the depth of everyone's displeasure, from his father's disappointment to his wife's bubbling, seething _rage._ He knew Emmett's ire too— an urge towards violence, a simmering fury that he only _just_ kept under wraps. His love for the girl, contrasted so sharply with his disdain for the choices their brother had made…

Jasper turned his head away.

"I know you don't want to," said Emmett, and Jasper could feel the rising anxiety, so like Bella's, deep in his own chest. "I _know_ you don't want to… but I think you_ should, _Jasper. It's not healthy."

"What isn't healthy?"

"Letting yourself be a siphon for the whole family without any outlet for yourself," he said. "You're the only person in the world your gift can't reach, Jasper. You help everyone else all the time, so let us help _you."_

"I don't want help…"

"No, but I think you might _need _it."

Jasper scowled, his teeth bared.

"There's nothing you can do for me," he said, and he began to walk through the ravine. "Not unless you can fix _her."_

"She will be fixed…"

"Not soon enough."

Emmett frowned, his face tight.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that she's _still_ suffering," said Jasper, at once agitated and angry. "I mean that she'll _continue_ to suffer."

"How do you mean?"

"You know what he did to her," Jasper returned. "What _Edward_ said to her, when he left."

"No." Emmett shook his head, his face unreadable. "No, Jas. I _don't."_

"She's his _mate!"_ His shout echoed from the trees, sending a flock of tittering birds to the sky. "She's his _mate, _Emmett… there _is_ no separation. There never _could_ be."

"Rose and I…"

Jasper's laugh was hard, spiky.

"Your bond with Rosalie is as clad as iron," he returned. "You might have your differences, but in the end, Emmett, you are bound to her like the moon to the earth. Just like Alice and I. Just like Carlisle and Esme. There cannot be one without the other. Not for us."

And Emmett said nothing, for he knew that it was true. Jasper had caught the flavour of his brother's fledgling bond long before even _Edward_ had realized it— had felt the strange, unnatural attachment between the two of them, even when their interactions had been antagonistic and unkind. Bella hadn't even _liked _him at first, and Jasper could hardly blame her. Throughout those early days, before either had them had realized just what their bond really meant, she had barely _tolerated_ him, but still, she had been drawn to him like water to the shore.

"It is an egregious crime, Emmett, to do what he did to her. She is _human._ She doesn't have the power, the endless _time_ of immortality, and she is so tightly bound by the limitations of her kind. She's barely even _grown,_ Emmett— almost a child, still— and he took from her the only stability, the only _real_ love she will ever know. Edward knows this— he _knows_ what the mating bond does to the psyche, to the soul, but he abandoned her anyways, and left us here to clean up his mess."

"She's getting better…"

"She _won't _get better," said Jasper, and this time, Emmett frowned. "Not really. She might go on, in whatever fog she's been living in, but there will be no real _life _for her. She won't find a human to match our brother. She will never marry for love, or have those beautiful babies he's so keen to give her."

"She might still…"

"She _won't,"_ said Jasper, and there was a finality in his voice that made even Emmett pause. "I promise you, she won't. I told Alice— _promised_ her— that we would not make the same mistakes twice, and I intend to keep that promise, but Bella needs more than we can give her, Emmett, and I don't know if I have it in me to watch our brother hurt her again."

"He wouldn't…"

Jasper laughed.

"He absolutely_ would,_ if he thought it was right," he returned. "I love Edward as only a brother can, but he is a moral, brooding _fool_ who knows so little of the world it's almost laughable. For all his years, he's really only a child himself."

There was a long pause, so quiet, and so still.

"I _told_ him this would happen, you know." Emmett only stared. "I _told_ him she would end up like this, once she found out we were leaving. I couldn't know about the _other_ threat, of course, but that's only icing on the cake at this point."

"She will_ heal…"_

"In time," Jasper said, and Emmett shook his head. "She will heal in body, and perhaps in mind, but her _soul,_ Emmett… for all Edward preaches his concern for it, he has done very little to safeguard it in his absence."

"She has _us."_

"I know."

"She'll _always_ have us," he went on, his voice hard. "I'm not going anywhere, Jasper. Not after what I've seen, and I'll be damned if I let anyone else go, either."

"You're not getting it," said Jasper, and this time, he heard Emmett's rumbling frustration. "You're not hearing what I'm telling you… that girl is my _sister,_ Emmett, but she is not my mate. She's not yours either. We can't love her like she needs… can't do for her what _he_ can."

His voice was bitter, resentful. It had been _his_ hands that had brought her back from the dead, _his_ lips that had forced the breath of life back into her. It had been his face that she'd seen, when she'd opened her eyes on the beach, and _his_ voice she'd heard, in her moment of panic and pain. Jasper had felt it like it was his own— the disbelief, the horrible, dreadful fear… and he'd soothed it, softened the sharpness of its edges. He had done whatever he could to take away that suffering, to ease its tyranny over her heart, but there was nothing he could do for that eerie, hollow ache— the ache of a soul split asunder, bleeding and raw.

When he met Emmett's gaze, peering into the hard, black eyes, he saw the resignation there, the acceptance. His next words were harder, more compact, and earned such a feeble response that Jasper felt bad giving it a voice.

"And so what else can we do?"

"We pray to God that our idiot brother finds his sense," he replied, his words short and stiff. "We pray to every god we know that he realizes what he's done, and that he comes back, either to grovel at her feet or to beg her forgiveness. Preferably both."

"It has to be hurting him as much as it's hurting _her…"_

Jasper hissed, his eyes flashing a warning that Emmett did not heed.

"I _know_ it's hurting him," said Jasper, and venom slicked his throat, his mouth. "I _know_ it is, because it's the only thing in the world that's kept me from dragging him back myself, to show him the damage he's done."

"Shush."

"He'd deserve it, and more, ten times over…"

"_Quiet!"_

And at once, before he could make any sense of the interruption, he felt his whole body coiled with seething, raging fury.

The breeze, so soft and so gentle here in their pit, did not blow harshly through the trees and the grass. The rain above did not reach them, and the canopy of trees kept the weakening sunlight from their iridescent skin. It was a quiet space— particularly chosen for that especial attribute— and so when they heard it, so faint and so distant, it was at once alarming, and rife with grim, terrible satisfaction.

In a flash, they were out of the ravine and back on the mountain slope, faces upturned towards the mist, listening, _waiting._

"West," Jasper said, and at once, his feet were moving.

For on the wind, not three miles from where they were, was the sound of running footsteps, and the sickly, sugary scent of _her._

**A/N: I hope this chapter wasn't too hard for you to follow. Thanks again for all your love. A few thoughts:**

**First, Jasper's thoughts at the end came as a bit of a surprise, even to me, but I'm glad he got a chance to make himself heard. I had planned to give him a bit of attention a few chapters from now, but he just had to butt in early.**

**Second, I know lots of you are clamouring for a non-canon pairing (especially Bella/Emmett), but I want to reiterate that first and foremost, this is a story about FAMILY. In my version of events, Emmett loves Bella, but she is his sister. I don't know if my take on the mating bond is canon (the nature of these relationships is left a little nebulous in the source material), but in my mind, immortal mates are bound for life. People like to crap on Rose for her poor attitude (and this will be addressed later in this story, I promise), but sometimes, we forget where Rosalie comes from and why Emmett matters so much to her. Rosalie loves her family and her mate- that has never been an issue- but she DOES take umbrage with change. She has never been perfect, though some people like to paint her as such, and she's jealous and unkind, but I think, at heart, she's fundamentally good. Emmett loves her- both in my story and in the source texts- and I don't plan on undoing any of that.**

**Thanks again for listening.**

**XO**


	11. Complications

**Chapter 10**

They ran until the world grew dark.

High in the mountains, drifting like moonbeans through the gloom, Jasper felt the rushing pound of adrenaline in every muscle and nerve, spurring his determination and his frustration. He felt it like a pulse in his arteries and veins, so long dead and yet so terribly, gleefully _alive. _He could almost _taste_ her on the air, so close and so near, but she was just far enough ahead that he could not _see_ her, and so the chase went on.

"East!" he heard Emmett shout, his voice carrying on the wind through the trees. "East, Jasper! Cut her off!"

With a rumble of fury, he took off at a sprint, hearing quite clearly what his brother had made out from behind— the skittering of those frantic feet, and the gleeful giggle when she began to wind back north.

"Right!" Jasper cried, sliding beneath a thick canopy of pines on his back. "North!"

He heard Emmett's thunderous sprint hot on his heels.

"She's going to get away!"

"No she _won't!"_ Jasper's teeth were clenched, his eyes bright with exultation. This is what he was good at, what he had been_ made_ for… he was a hunter, a _seeker,_ and never before had his prey escaped him. When Jasper chased, his object was as good as caught, and this creature would not be the first to foil him…

"Holy shit!"

In an instant, the sound of Victoria's footsteps were gone. Jasper froze in mutinous outrage, his face a mask of pure and unadulterated fury, but when he turned towards the place where Emmett would emerge, there was nothing but the wind.

At once, he was on edge.

"Emmett!"

"Holy _shit..."_

The sound was distant— about a mile or so south— and Jasper hesitated, everything in him crying out to fuel the pursuit.

_She's right there_, he thought. _So close. So near…_

"Shit… Jasper! Come here!"

At once, his mutinous anger melted into concern.

Sprinting, just as he had in pursuit of the threat, Jasper wove his way through the brush and the trees without so much as a blink. It took only a minute for him to reach the spot where Emmett was, so deep in the undergrowth that even when he found him, he was shielded. The place where he stood was so permeated, so _thick_ with smells, that Jasper stopped, mesmerized.

"What in the hell is _that?"_

"I have absolutely _no_ idea."

At once, Jasper recognized the origin of the smell, though he could not pinpoint its source. He could make out the flavour of his own kind as if it were second nature to him— as if he were back again in his home state, surrounded by fighting, by _death. _

This clearing, so carefully carved into the trees, seemed to rise from the gloom of the deepest reaches of the forest, as unexpected as it was odd. Around the perimeter, he could see the cracked, splintered trunks, the bodies of those trees flung in a haphazard melee where they had crushed the plants and flowers underneath, reducing them to a mouldering, putrefying sludge. The air was ripe with rot— so thick and sickly that he brought a hand to his nose— but his keen eyes were drawn at once to a spot in the middle where he could see an odd-looking heap rising just beyond the reaches of the tallest grass.

The smell of so many others, of such a _threat_, put him on edge as he entered the clearing. He could smell them here, like so many who had come before, like so many he had_ destroyed_ before. They still smelled like blood— they always did, in their first year— and though that scent had once driven him mad with fury and lust, he felt nothing, now, but sickness.

When he neared the center of the clearing, where that odd, lumpy parcel lay, he felt every hair on his body stand on end, every nerve alight with a sizzling anticipation. He felt watched here, as if he were somehow falling into a trap, but when nothing came for him and there was no disturbance in the rancid, stagnant stink, he reached, carefully, towards the pile.

It was not, as he had expected, something dead or dying, though the smell left much to be desired. He kicked at the bundle, disturbing an angry swarm of flies that he batted away, before he reached, slowly, to grab the topmost piece which was stiff with dirt, its colour nearly indistinguishable beneath the grime.

"Is that…"

At once, Jasper turned.

"That looks like… _hers."_

Jasper only stared, his gaze lingering on the soiled, filthy clothing. He could tell what it was clearly enough, though he had no idea where it had come from or how it had come to be here. It was a shirt, small and thin with short, capped sleeves, and a tear along the back as if it had been ripped off with force.

"Yes." The shirt was filthy— caked and saturated with dirt and mud— but he brought it to his face without a second thought, taking in a deep, careful inhale that made his throat burn and his eyes stream.

He smelled _them_, and with such clarity that he felt his whole body shudder with the force of it. Emmett did not understand— he could smell it too, Jasper knew, but he did not recognize it as readily as Jasper did. Emmett did not have the knowledge, the _experience,_ to call it what it was, to recognize this scent among a dozen others that lingered, turning the very air to poison, choking and bitter.

Jasper held that pilfered scrap of fabric out to his brother, letting him bring his face in close, to breathe in the stink. Emmett recoiled at once— it was only natural, given what it was— but beneath the disgust there was a gleam of understanding, of _recognition._

"It smells like _death,"_ he said, and Jasper turned away. "It smells like _blood, _Jasper. What in the hell _is_ it?"

"It's a shirt."

"I know _that._" He took a step back, his face screwed up. "But…"

"Do you recognize it?" asked Jasper, and when he shook the garment out, letting some of the dirt fall to the ground, the fragrant undertones became a little stronger. "Do you smell _her?"_

At once, his brother hissed.

"What in the _hell…"_

They glanced back, both fixing their attention on the pile of old clothes in the center of the field. The top that Jasper held was only the tip of the iceberg, and underneath, they saw a mountain of other garments, all of different colours. There were blue jeans and hoodies, old socks and underwear. There were tops, like the one they'd taken, and shoes— some familiar, and others not. There was a skirt near the bottom, and a tall pair of boots, and beneath all of that, was a t-shirt, wrinkled and torn with wear. When Jasper turned it over, he gave a savage, burning hiss.

He dropped that shirt in the same moment that he touched it, the reek rising like steam. He could almost _see_ it in the air, drifting and curling like smoke, and when Emmett caught it, not a second after Jasper had discarded it, he scowled, his mouth set in a firm, immovable line.

They did not need an explanation to know where that new smell had come from— the great, blooming stain on the front was more than telling. It was no longer red, having turned brown and black with age, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of it, the sweetness. They would know it anywhere, for it was what their instincts craved above all else, what their very nature demanded, _needed._

Jasper recognized the daughter in the blood of the father, and he took another step away, his heart in his throat.

"It's all Bella's?" Emmett spoke in disbelief. "All of it?"

"I think so," Jasper said, and he breathed in the smell of the shirt again. He fought through his revulsion at the reek of rot and decay, and focused instead on another layer— the one that had attracted his attention in the first place.

"And do you smell_ that?"_ he asked, thrusting the shirt once more at his brother. Emmett wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Jasper was insistent, harsh.

"It smells like _death,"_ Emmett said again, and this time, Jasper grinned. "It smells _wrong."_

"You've never been around a newborn, have you?"

Emmett's scowl froze in place.

"They often smell like that, when they're not properly fed," he said. "It's the way they're built… they need to feed to keep up their strength, and if their bodies can't get it from the blood they crave, they'll eat away at themselves, instead."

"So…"

"It's not pretty when we self-destruct," Jasper finished, and again, he glanced out at the pile of clothes, the disturbances in the grass. "We need blood, Emmett, just like humans need water, or air. It won't _kill_ us if we don't get it, but our bodies are more than capable of making us suffer for it."

"Are you saying that there were _newborns_ here?"

"I'm saying that they're here still," Jasper replied, and at once, he felt his brother's fear. "They're not far off, now… though they haven't caught on to us yet. If they had, we'd be fighting, not talking."

Understanding dawned on his face and Jasper waited as the realization slowly sunk its teeth in. There was not much that could rattle Emmett— he was so steady, so _calm—_ but this seemed to strike a hard and true blow, right to the gut.

At once, he stared around, fixing his gaze on the shadows at the farthest edge of the clearing.

"We should go," he said, and Jasper did not disagree. "We shouldn't even _be_ here…"

"No," he agreed. "No, we shouldn't. But it makes no difference now… they'll catch our scents the minute they return."

"How many?"

"I'd say at least ten. Maybe more."

He saw Emmett's resolve harden.

"We must _go, _Jasper, before they come back. We're no match for this many… not with just the two of us."

"No," Jasper said, and he felt a shiver down his spine. "No, Emmett. We won't be _nearly_ enough."

* * *

"_Just go, Alice… leave me alone."_

Alone. That was where she wanted to be, and no matter how much it hurt her, Alice forced herself to listen, to comply.

Bella had not said another word all night, though the darkness had grown long and she had not slept a wink. They had heard her up there, swinging wildly between absolute silence and terrible, aching cries, but not even Esme, in all her kindness, had managed to break through the angry, railing gloom. She would not be consoled— not by any one of them— and it only served to irritate Alice further, to make her seethe with absolute, unadulterated _fury._

When she got her hands on her brother, she would kill him. She would ruin him just as badly as he'd ruined _her,_ and then she'd break him again, just to get her point across.

"Time, Alice…" Carlisle's soothing words, his _platitudes,_ did nothing to dull the edge of her anger. "She needs _time."_

The irrepressible antagonism in her stare was enough to stop even Carlisle's gentle voice, and he looked at once disappointed and put out. Alice forced herself to back down, forced herself to keep her derision and her sarcasm in check, but it was not enough for Carlisle that she _tried._

"She is grieving, Alice," he said, after the silence had grown long and sorry. "She's confused. Give her time to come back to herself, before you go rushing in. She's in no danger up there, and I know she needs time to figure things out."

But Alice knew no such patience— she had never been one to wait, to sit idle while the world demanded action. She did not know _how_ to be still— not really— and it was an oddity, a _rarity, _for her to be denied the things she wanted. Alice was never turned away— not by her family, at least— and this rejection rankled and stung. Bella had made her wishes quite clear— she had demanded, _ordered_ Alice to leave her, and Alice had obeyed, though rather reluctantly. Alice had wished for this— had wished for Bella's rage, rather than that terrible, sad confusion— but now that her wish had been granted, she wondered if they hadn't been better off before.

"Clarity will only help her," said Carlisle, as if he could hear the ruminations in Alice's head. "I know it hurts now…"

"It will hurt for a while, yet," Alice snapped, glancing once again at the silent ceiling above their heads. Sometimes, Alice heard her walking up there— a fact that Carlisle did not like, but that he tolerated well enough without complaint. Sometimes, they heard her foot tapping. But now, Alice had to wonder if she'd fallen asleep again, for the room was so quiet, so _still,_ that she could hardly make out the thrumming of her heart or the soft intake of breath.

"It might," Carlisle agreed and Alice saw his growing sorrow, his regret. "We've done her a great hardship, Alice, whether we meant to or not. She's well within her rights to turn us away, if she wants to."

"She can't _leave."_

"She's a grown woman," Carlisle replied, though Alice knew that even _he_ didn't quite believe it. "There's not much we can do to stop her, if that's what she wants."

"She _belongs_ here."

"Maybe…"

"She still needs medical care."

"Yes," he sighed. "She does. But after that, I won't make any more choices for her."

Alice could only stare, her defiance mixing with her disbelief.

"We will help her, Alice, in whatever way she needs," Carlisle said with a note of finality, of _authority. _"We will accept her in whatever form she takes, and if she chooses to leave us, we will take that blow with grace."

"_You_ might…"

"We _all_ will." There was a hardness now, a sobriety. "We _will not_ force her, Alice. Never again. You've seen where that path ends... you've _seen_ what comes of our meddling. We didn't trust her last time but we _will_ trust her now— if Bella wants to leave us, we will let her go."

Alice bit her tongue, mutinous.

"I don't know if I can do that, Carlisle," she said, tamping down the words she _wanted_ to say in favour of some that were a little more civilized. "You know how we are… how we _all_ are."

"Yes."

"She's my sister," Alice said, and Carlisle did not refute her. "There is nothing in the world I want more than her happiness."

"That's all anyone wants…"

"She won't find it out there," Alice continued and she peeked, for the first time in hours, into that thick, soupy fog of Bella's future. "I still can't see it, Carlisle… but I know that _this_ is where she should be. With us. With _him."_

"He's made _his_ wishes clear, too…"

Alice hissed, spiteful and irate, and Carlisle was controlled enough not to snap back at her.

"To hell with _him_, and to hell with his _wishes,"_ she seethed, and Carlisle looked away with a frown. "I'll be damned if I listen to _him_ ever again in my life!"

"She's his mate..."

"And I _don't care."_ She sounded like a child, and she knew it, but it did not stop her. "We are none of us our own, Carlisle. You know that."

He glanced, ever so quickly, towards the door of the office where Esme was working. She, like Alice, was bothered by the sorrow, the _loneliness_ upstairs, and had distracted herself with work to keep from intruding on Bella's desired solitude. It was not in Esme's nature to let that child suffer, and Alice knew it well, but her mother was steadier, _calmer_ in the face of a crisis, and her feelings did not show so clearly on her sleeve.

Carlisle could not see his wife, for the barrier of the door was thick and impermeable. The French doors were glassed, but Esme had pulled the thin, muslin curtain to block the view into the rest of the house while she sketched and tinkered with floor plans and blueprints.

Alice knew that Carlisle agreed with her and she felt vindicated when he did not argue further— he knew just as well as she did that none of them existed in isolation. They were none of them whole without the others— there was no husband without the wife, no father without the son. There were no brothers without their sisters, no mother without her daughters…

They were a _family,_ and that girl upstairs had become an integral, fundamental part of it.

"It is _her_ choice to make, Alice," said Carlisle, after a long and pregnant pause. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but it's the _truth."_

"You will lose your son," said Alice, her words biting and cruel in her anger. "If we lose that girl upstairs, you'll lose Edward too. You know him better than you know yourself, Carlisle. If she leaves, he'll follow her, and when she dies…"

Carlisle hung his head, his eyes pressed shut.

"You know he'll go, too."

* * *

When Jasper returned Alice had but little warning, her endless search through the fog of the future coming to vivid, noisy fruition.

_Running. She felt it in her own feet, in the strain of her muscles. In less than a second she had orientated herself, had righted herself in this new, green space and she watched, perplexed, as two blurred shapes tore through the trees like lightning._

_They sprinted like wild things, faster and straighter than their usual hunts. They did not stop to track, did not slow to put their noses to the ground to examine a footprint or a scent. They did not call to each other, did not give pointers or direction, and though Jasper was ahead, always faster than their brother, he did not go fast enough to leave him, as had become their norm._

_She saw Jasper's frown, his face bone-white and his jaw set with familiar, stubborn determination. Behind him, equally pale, was Emmett, and Alice had a tough time understanding the curious unease she saw in the both of them._

"_Faster, Emmett…" Jasper's voice was only a hiss. "Faster. They'll have realized, by now… we've been found out."_

When the vision ended, she came back with a huff.

Seated on the wood of the second floor landing, Alice ran over those details again in her head. It had been an odd vision, and one so close to the present that it was almost as useless to her as the grey mist. They would be here soon, she knew— in less than two full minutes— and she barely had time to rise from the floor, her ear lingering on the silent door of the spare bedroom, before she was down the stairs.

"They're coming," said Alice, and at once, her mother and father were there. Esme came first, peering curiously from her office to stare, perplexed, at her daughter. Carlisle was slower, more reluctant, and he did not ask her how she knew.

"They're running," she explained, and they heard the thundering footsteps in the trees. "Jasper's… worried."

Carlisle moved to the window at once.

In the treeline, where the grass met the forest, she saw first one blur, then another, emerging from the dripping canopy. They were soaked to the bone, though the rain was only drizzling, and both had been sprayed with mud and debris, but they did not even take the time to shake away the worst of it before they were in the house, Jasper's fingers on the lock.

When he flicked the deadbolt, the sound loud in the quiet of the house, it was Esme who stepped forward, stopping only when Jasper flung aside the panel by the door and pressed the buttons there, releasing the thick, metal grates over every window in the house.

It darkened by inches, leaving them in total blackness, before Alice could ask a thing. When her question did come, it was not the one she had been expecting.

"What in the world is that _smell?"_

Jasper sighed, his head downcast.

"We have a problem, Carlisle…" He held out his hand, in which Alice noticed a dripping, filthy scrap. Their father took it, curiosity blazing. "We have a _huge_ problem."

* * *

"I need to know, Alice… I _need_ to know."

"You already _do."_

"I must know for _certain,"_ he returned, and Alice could hear the determination, the stubbornness in every word. "I'm almost positive I'm right, but I need to know for _sure."_

"She won't answer," said Alice, and though he tapped again on the thick, silent wood, there was no reply. "She won't let us in."

"It's a _door,_ Alice," he replied, crisp and sour. "It can hardly keep us _out."_

"That's not the point…"

Carlisle, watching in silence, offered nothing. Jasper tapped again, a little more urgently.

"I know you don't want to see me, doll, but please, _open the door."_

A sniffle, a rustle of fabric, and then hard, cold silence.

"I need to see her."

"So break the door." Emmett's suggestion was harsh, almost mocking. "If she won't open it for you, _you_ open it for _her."_

Jasper looked at Esme for permission.

"If it matters that much…"

At once, the doorknob crumpled in his fist.

In the silence of the room, Alice took in the sight with gnawing, anxious care. She knew this room, and had grown to know it even more over these past days, when Bella had been unconscious and confused. She knew the bed, fresh and soft, and she knew the plush, white rug, and so it took her a moment to realize what had happened when she saw the bed empty and the rug pushed haphazardly to the side.

She was there, Alice saw, in a corner by the window, her body wrapped in a blanket and curled on the hard, wooden floor. She did not acknowledge their intrusion with anything more than a quick flinch at the noise before she shivered, burrowing down in the blankets as if she were trying to hide. Jasper took this all in stride, ignoring Esme's sudden pang of grief at the sight of the empty bed, and instead moved with a purpose towards the windows, where the girl waited, unmoving. He knelt, sitting back on his heels, before he spoke.

"Are you alright, doll?"

Above the edge of the blankets, peeking like a child, Alice saw the angry, frosted glare she shot him before she turned away and buried her face in the soft fabric of the blanket. Jasper's brow twitched in annoyance, though he mastered it quickly, before she spoke again.

"Darlin', please look at me," he said, and though Alice knew that she could hear him, she did not budge. She could feel Jasper's impatience, his _frustration_, but the girl remained oblivious and impervious.

"I need you to _look, _Bella. It's important."

Buried beneath her covers, face pressed stubbornly to floor, Bella neither moved nor spoke. Had Alice not seen the ragged rise and fall of her breathing, hitching slightly whenever Jasper touched her back, she might have thought she was asleep. She had wrapped herself tightly in her blanket, her body curled and stiff, and when Jasper tried to pry it from her, she would not give it up.

"Please?"

She ignored him.

When Jasper growled, the sound was so full of petulant irritation that Bella startled. Alice did not like the noise— it always upset her, to see her mate unhappy— and when she reached down herself and began to wheedle the blanket away it was met with a moment of panic followed by a nervous, angry scrabbling. When Alice emerged victorious, as she knew she would, Bella was left on the floor in her nightdress, stretched thin to cover her knees, and she trembled.

"It's alright," said Alice, handing the covers to Jasper once she'd managed to wiggle them loose. "It's _alright_, Bella. Look at me, please."

But she would not and, even more like a child, she clamped her eyes shut so tightly that it made wrinkles on her face. She was shivering now, with cold and with fright, and Alice felt a niggling sympathy, but this was more important than any minor human discomfort.

"I promise I'll leave you alone," Alice said, though the words hurt her. "I promise I will, Bella. But first, I need you to _look."_

"No."

Alice sighed.

"Please?"

"_No."_

She turned away, defeated.

"Can we not make our plans without it?" Esme demanded but Jasper, his face pinched, simply shook his head. "Are you _that_ uncertain?"

"I am almost _positive, _Esme, which is why I need to _know." _The crumpled shirt, so pungent that even Bella would be able to smell it, hung limply in his fist. "I want to know if it's hers, because then I'll know for sure what that woman _wants."_

On the floor the girl shivered again, her legs curling in a little tighter.

"Look at me, Bella," said Jasper, and though his voice rang with authority, it did nothing but make her flinch. _"Look_ at me!"

And then he touched her— one, thin, ghostly finger on the nape of her bare neck— and she jolted, her body seeming to melt into the floor in an instant. She could not resist his thrall even if she tried— not his calm, not his easy, helpful compliance. In one second she had relaxed, and in the next her eyes peeked open, and though Alice could see the resentment there, the _anger,_ it did nothing to relieve Jasper's influence over her, so unnatural and unfair.

"That's right, darlin'." He forced a smile, which she did not return. "That's just right. Now…"

Carefully, as if he did not want to do any further damage, Alice watched as Jasper slid his hands beneath her, gently lifting her from her slump. Bella only stared at him, her eyes darting and wary, but when she was sitting, rather awkwardly, on the hard wood of the floor, Alice saw her terrible anxiety, her _fear._

Alice knew that Jasper was stressed— that the things he had seen in the forest were making him antsy and upset— but at the sight of Bella's fear, she saw that agitation melt into the sweet, sensitive kindness that he held in his heart for their girl. That kindness, that _love,_ outweighed even his darkest moods and he sighed, reaching out his other hand to smooth away the worry on her face.

"You've got nothing to fear from me, honey," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She looked away, embarrassed, but Jasper did not let _that_ linger, either. Alice watched with mild amazement as it leeched away like melting ice, a steady calm filling the void it left behind.

"I need you now, honey. Can you do something for me?"

She frowned, and the silence continued.

"I just need you to _look,"_ he wheedled. "I only want you look, and to tell me what you see. Can you do that?"

She shrugged, her chin ducked as she began to fidget, to resist. He stared at her for a moment longer, his fingers still settled on the warm skin at the crook of her arm before he sighed, reaching down for the offending, filthy object he'd carried in with him.

At once, Bella recoiled.

"I just need to know, Bella… is this yours?"

She turned away from the stink, from the sickly rot of mildew and mold. She would not be able to smell the _threat_ of it— not like they could— but her nose still wrinkled in disgust.

"I know," Jasper said, and he pulled it away, but only just. "I know it's unsavoury_,_ but I need you to tell me… is this yours, Bella? Is this from your house?"

And then, as if she were taking a plunge into deep and icy water, Alice saw her hold her breath as she turned to peer at the filthy, rotting shirt. It took her a moment to make it out, to understand the dirt, and the colours that were there. The top had once been red— the kind of bright crimson that Rosalie always favoured— and there had been buttons down the front, but no longer. It was caked with mud and dirt— even now, Alice could see the particles settling on the floor— and when Bella squinted, Alice heard the tiniest intake of breath.

Bella reached out to touch it, to stroke it with her trembling, pale fingers, but she stopped herself short, her anger and sadness melting into terrible, gripping confusion.

"Where _was_ it?" she asked, and Alice felt a sinking in the pit of her belly as Jasper's fears were confirmed. "That's been lost for _months._ Where did you find it?"

"Never mind that now," said Jasper and he released her, taking his influence with him in an instant. "That doesn't matter now. Thank you for your help."

And as he rose from the floor, turning to face his wife with a ferocity like fire, Alice saw, with an odd, quiet sympathy, how Bella's body changed when he released her from his gift. She saw the ease melt again into the boiling grief in which she'd been wallowing since the morning. Alice saw the relief and the cooperation fade like mist as it was replaced with that obstinate, petulant defiance once more, and she saw accusation in her eyes— the flash of absolute, unbridled_ hatred_ for the liberties he'd taken. Jasper saw this too and he turned, blinking in surprise when she began to cry, her tears furious and scalding. She wiped them with an angry fist, looking for all the world as if she'd like to _hit_ him, and when he reached, not to influence, but to console, she jerked away so harshly that Alice swore she could hear the grinding of those broken, tender bones.

"Don't_ touch _me," she snapped, and Jasper pulled his hand away. "Don't you _ever_ touch me again."

His guilt increased tenfold.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice regretful. "I _am_ sorry, honey, but I needed to know."

"Go _away."_

"I will." He rose, slow and sad, before he turned towards the door. Alice watched him go with furious helplessness, the sting of that dismissal hitting home. He paused at the door again, though it did nothing to ease her outrage.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, honey. You've been a big help."

But Bella said nothing, turning herself again towards the window, and when Alice returned her blanket to her she snatched it, burying herself so deeply that they couldn't see her face. The others filed out, leaving Alice alone with her for the briefest of moments, and she took advantage of their solitude to press a soft, quick kiss to the crown of her head.

"I'm sorry, Bella," she breathed. "I'm _so_ sorry."

The girl said nothing.

"I love you."

She hunkered down a little deeper and Alice heard her soft, quiet tears as they hit the floor.

Alice was at a loss as she backed herself away. She reached the hallway in a fluster, wishing there was something,_ anything_ she could do...

"Jasper?"

"Not here," he said, and at once, Alice felt his hand gripping hers. He pulled her softly, _gently_ away from the darkened bedroom, leaving their sister to grieve and to rage in her own, private hell.

Once the door was shut, Alice felt her shoulders sag, her breath heavy and slow. Jasper gave her only a moment— a mere second to collect herself— before he was pulling her towards the staircase, urgent and swift. They gathered there together, all five of them somber and still, and when Jasper spoke, it was with a ringing sort of authority that even Alice rarely heard.

"They'll come," he said, and Alice saw Emmett's quick, quiet frown. "They'll have caught our scents, Carlisle. _They_ know that _we_ know."

"I'm still not sure, Jasper, what exactly we _do_ know."

"Victoria," he said, and Alice could hear the contempt in every syllable. "Victoria has been… busy."

"Busy?"

"When Edward left, he told us he was heading south," Jasper said. "He told us he was going to try and find her, to _end _her, before she could exact her revenge, as we all knew she would."

"Obviously he failed…"

"Yes, but that's not the point. The point is that her trail _did_ lead south." He paused, as if waiting for an epiphany. When none came he sighed, stepping closer to their father, their _leader._

"_South,_ Carlisle," he said, and this time, Alice saw the dawning realization. "You _know_ what goes on in the south… what they create down there, to gain control of the cities."

"You mean she's…"

"She's _building,"_ he spat, and at once, Alice felt cold. "She's creating newborns, Carlisle. And she gave them _Bella's_ _scent."_

And at once, as if a great wave had risen, Alice heard the intake of breath, the terrible, roiling _hiss._

"She wouldn't _dare…"_

"She has dared, Esme. She's already _done _it. They're here, in the forest, and she's starving them."

"How can you starve a newborn?" she asked, incredulous. "They're _mad_ with lust, Jasper. You know that."

"With great difficulty, and great restraint," he replied, and Alice did not need to ask how he knew. She knew every detail of his sordid, troubled past, and she knew how _he_ had done this very thing to those he had raised, had _trained_. He had told her all of his tricks— how he would keep his young charges in check by rewarding only desirable behaviour, and how those who did not listen, did not _conform,_ were kept under lock and key. She had told him what it was like when they did not feed— how they grew wild before they went mad, how their hard, marble skin turned to crumbling, ashen dust. How they could not die, could not fade away, but how they could fester, and sicken, and _rot._

It was a terrible way to live, he had told her, and more than a few had met this fate under his control, his _command._ Newborns were more prone to this decay— madness came easier to them, for their new bodies required constant sustenance in order to thrive. Their strength made them unruly— made them so difficult to control that even Jasper had often failed— and yet somehow Victoria had done it, had created a hoard of half-starved, half-wild newborns to terrorize a _human._

"She will come," Emmett said, and this time, all eyes flashed to him. "She will come for us, for _Bella,_ and when she does, I don't know if we'll be enough to stop her."

Jasper scowled, his face dark.

"We'll need everyone," he said, and the look he gave his brother did not go unnoticed. At once Emmett nodded, his hand reaching for his phone.

"She'll come," he said, without so much as a hint of doubt, and Alice knew that he was right. Rosalie was angry with him— _furious,_ in fact— but she would not abandon her family now, in their time of need. She would not let Emmett fight, would not let him die without her, and she knew that her sister would come to help.

But her brother… he was more uncertain.

"I don't know where Edward is," she said, and Jasper frowned, unhappy. "I can't see him clearly… not since he left the States."

"Call him, Alice, and _try_ to see…"

_"I_ will call him."

Alice turned to her father in amazement.

"He will listen to _me,_ Alice, even if he won't heed _you._ He must be here… for himself, as much as for _her._ If she falls…"

"She _won't."_

"If she _does,"_ he repeated, "he would never forgive himself for failing in his duty. He will come, Alice. I'll make sure of it."

And then he left, too, flying on Emmett's heels to the kitchen, his fingers already dialling the familiar number for the burner in Brazil.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! XO**


	12. Rose

**Chapter 11**

High above the world atop a steep and towering cliff, Rosalie stood still, her face glazed with the billowing mist of the sea.

All around her roared the rising rush of the Pacific. The air was cold today— unseasonably bitter, though spring was well-established— and though it could not hurt her, she felt it keenly on her bare, white arms. The beauty of this place, of this coast that she loved so much, had vanished in the storm, its subtle hues of emerald and jade fading to bleak, ashen greys and roiling, tumbling blacks. Beneath her feet the grass had been trampled down to mud. The vibrant pebbles that glittered like gems even when the sky was overcast had been washed out in the rain, their colour leached bare and waxen as if someone had siphoned it all away. Rain pounded down on her, leaving her soaked to the bone, but she didn't mind it— not now, when she was so carefully watching, inspecting the shore.

Below, where the raging waves met land, she could see a small strip of sand and a narrow, rocky beach. It was not a place for company— there were no people bumbling about even when the weather was kind. The water was rough and cold, and she knew that most preferred the beaches further south, closer to the heart of the reservation. There were a few fire pits, long forgotten and cold, whose ashes had spread out like ink from the confines of their stone circles. Driftwood made skeletons in the surf, smoothed by the water and bleached bone-white, and she watched as they bobbed in the murky, frothing water, her eyes narrowed and her mood dark.

She could smell the girl— faint and almost lost, but still present, still _here._ She could smell the fragrant aroma of her blood, the sweet, almost childish scent of her skin. She smelled of strawberries and of some flower Rosalie could not name. The fruit came from her soap. The floral note was all her own.

She turned her face away, trying to banish that smell from her memory.

She knew what had happened here, as clearly as if she had been the one to watch it unfold. She had seen the horror in Alice's face— Alice, who had latched herself so quickly to this frail human child that their brother insisted on keeping. This child that her family had grown to love. The child who had _broken _them.

She could imagine it like a movie, that tumbling, fragile body plummeting towards almost certain death at the base of this cliff. Air leaving her lungs in a rush, water taking its place. The crack— perhaps of her head, or of her neck— as she was jostled among the rocks, and the last, stuttering beat of her heart, so delicate and precarious.

Rosalie looked over the edge of the cliff, peering down at the open maw below. Pillars of rock, sharp and deadly, stuck up like spears from the deep. The water was shallow— too shallow for a dive, at least— and she could make out the murky bottom each time the swell receded. As she inched, she felt the stones beneath her feet give way, hopping down the embankment before they came to rest in the water, sinking to lay on the ocean floor.

She saw the spot the girl must have hit— the _only_ spot, by her reckoning, that would have allowed her to survive it. A clear spot, almost directly below the cliffs, where falling water had eroded those sharp stones into little nubs meters below the surface. A place where she would not have been dashed to pieces. A place where, as luck would have it, she had managed to hit, and thus avoided the end she so craved— the same end which, if Rosalie were honest, she had thought about countless times herself.

What a gift it was, to live as humans did. What a _blessing._ Her own body was indestructible— so strong that there was hardly a force in the world that could destroy it, except another one of her own kind. She did not have the luxury of choice— she couldn't simply hop from a cliff or swallow a pill to rid herself of this worldly flesh. No. Rosalie would live forever, until the sun burned out in the sky, and she would always be _this— _never growing, never moving forward.

She snapped back to the present with a hiss, turning her back on the cliff altogether.

_Humans,_ she thought,_ are wasteful. So terribly, destructively wasteful…_

Rosalie began to run.

Moving through the forest was like second nature to her. She did not struggle to pick a path through the undergrowth, nor did she lose herself in the denseness of the trees. She moved with skill, and with purpose— she could smell her way, as easily as not, and in particular, she caught the scent of her _brother,_ not yet faded in the rain. She could smell Alice, too, and the girl, and though she hardly knew where she was or in which direction she was headed, she knew that no matter where this path took her, it would end in _home._

A pang of _something,_ perhaps anticipation, roiled in her belly like a swarm of flies. She so rarely had anything to look forward to that it was an uncomfortable feeling, but not unwelcome. It flitted about until the scent she was tracking grew stronger, and when she began to make out other notes— her father, her mother— her anticipation shrunk and her nerves began to rise.

Rosalie hated disappointing her parents. She had always hated being anything less than her best, though that very goal had often been her downfall. She was hot-tempered and fiercely stubborn, and this did not always mingle well with Carlisle's easy compromises, his ready and willing cooperation. Carlisle strove for unity while Rosalie's very nature demanded compliance, and so together, they often found themselves at odds.

But still, Rose hated being a let-down, and what a terrible, _awful_ disappointment she had been.

Change, Rose knew, was something with which she was never comfortable. She did not like the shifting of routine, the alteration of her carefully laid plans. Rose was methodical in her ways— she knew what to expect, and knew what her family should expect, too, and it had been this girl, this _child,_ who had thrown everything topsy-turvy in the space of a single afternoon.

It had taken Edward first, though Rosalie wasn't sure she could honestly mourn _that_ change. She had known it the minute she'd seen his face, speeding like a mad thing past the English classroom where she sat by the window. The bell had only just rung— Rose had been collecting her things— and she'd watched with mild concern as Edward launched himself into his car and fishtailed out of that parking lot as if the devil himself were in pursuit. Jasper, her seat-mate, had been likewise confused, and when they'd met up with Alice and Emmett in the hallway, it had been Alice who had told them what had happened.

At first, Rosalie had been in awe of his tenacity, his _control._ Back in the 40s, when Emmett was still young, he'd come across two such humans, both of whom had been devoured in an instant, without even a thought of restraint. There had been guilt, of course, and terrible, hateful shame, but they had moved on from those minor, early slips, and focused instead on the _good._

Rosalie did not understand why Edward had been able to resist, and she had pondered it long and hard before the next change had taken hold— this time with even more strength.

The girl had come for Alice next.

Spying, as was her speciality, had become somewhat of a habit for her presentient sister, who knew no boundaries of time or space and had no qualms about peering into the lives and business of others. Alice had a hard time seeing humans— she always had— and so it had taken her a full week to get a handle on the new girl who'd thrown Edward into turmoil. She'd stared into the future with a purpose and a goal, and she had emerged on the other side quite ecstatic and full of delight.

It had only made Rosalie even angrier when she'd told them what the future held— this girl, this _human_ girl, sprinting through the forest with their brother, her skin ice cold and her body as hard as stone…

Rosalie's protest had fallen on deaf ears— all save Emmett, who had listened, but kept quiet.

Rosalie could not be sure, exactly, when the girl had ensnared her parents. Perhaps it was that first visit, when she, herself, had been so boorish and rude. Perhaps it was later, when Edward had brought her back again at Esme's request. Perhaps it was when Carlisle had let her into the library, her face aglow with delight, or when he'd patched her up for what felt like the hundredth time in the span of a fortnight. Rosalie was not sure. What she did know was that it had not taken long— it had happened far ahead of their ill-fated baseball game— and that it had been her mother who had taken to her first.

Esme loved freely and indiscriminately, and the moment it had become clear that this girl had brought her son to life, her place in Esme's heart had been cemented.

Carlisle's attachment had come later. He had been fond of the girl, of course— Rosalie might even say that he _liked_ her— but that love of a father… that came later.

And then she'd come for Emmett… that blow had come at the end, and it had struck_ hard._

Emmett was, and always had been, Rosalie's rock. He was her lifeline in a sea of monotony, her joy in a world of sameness. She had married him thrice over and loved him fiercely all the while in between, but even _he_ was not immune to the girl, to the _change._ When Rose called her an interloper, he called her a gift. When human frailties annoyed her, Emmett rolled with laughter. When Bella had warmed to him, Rose had felt the ferocious, ugly jealousy in her heart, but he had hardly taken notice of her protests other than to scold her and to argue. Emmett had _never_ chastised her before— he was not her _father,_ after all— but they had bickered often, and angrily, about the girl and her place, and it had been an argument that she was never destined to win.

But Rosalie was proud and worse, she was _stubborn._

The girl was kinder than she was. She was softer. She was sweet where Rose was sour, gentle where she was rough. She worshipped the ground that Edward walked on, though for the life of her, Rose did not know why. Edward thought her beautiful— he told her so at every turn— and when Rose had heard his whispered tease that he had always preferred _brunettes,_ her own, blonde head had tossed in defiance. Rosalie was vain, and she knew it well, and she had let it get the better of her— had allowed her own envy to take root in the deepest core of her heart.

The girl had entranced every member of Rose's family, even aloof and worrisome Jasper, and Rose had hated her for it. She hated her influence, and resented the change she'd wrought. She hated the _care_ her family showed her, fragile and young as she was. She hated the way the girl tried to ensnare _her,_ to draw Rose into her trap of winning smiles and clumsy humour… but most of all, she hated herself for the ugliness in her soul— that bitter, envious, malicious creature who came for the innocent.

For Rose knew, without a doubt, that Isabella Swan _was_ an innocent. She had done nothing that countless humans hadn't done before her— nothing that Rosalie herself hadn't done before. She was not a monster— she had not killed, or maimed— but she had been punished nevertheless, and wrongfully so.

Bella's only crime was to love another— to love Rosalie's own _brother,_ who was in such desperate need of that love that Rosalie wondered what kind of beast she was to have ever denied him.

Running on feet as light as air, Rosalie was surprised when she heard another sound break into her daydreams— a harsher sound, a _louder_ sound, but a sound so altogether familiar that she stopped dead, her heart in her throat. It took him only a moment to reach her— just the barest, most fleeting instant before she was wrapped in a familiar, tender embrace.

He was tall enough to dwarf her, though she was not lacking in height of her own, and Rose simply let him squeeze, their reunion as bitter as it was sweet.

"Thank you," he said, and at once, she felt a stab of remorse. "Thank you, babe, for coming home."

Rosalie didn't say anything— she didn't _need_ to— and simply let him kiss her, so fierce and urgent that it felt like a reunion after years of separation, rather than weeks.

Of_ course_ she had come, when Emmett had called her. Of _course_ she would join them. She could not deny that she was angry— even now, as she held her mate in the safety of her arms, she could not help but feel a little niggling annoyance, an _irritation. _That feeling, however, paled in comparison to her fear, which had risen to a crescendo when he'd called her, so worried and so uncertain.

"_We need you," _was all he'd said before Rosalie could get a word out. _"There's a problem, Rose. We need you here."_

As unnatural as it was for her to keep silent, she had listened with furious outrage as he'd explained just what had happened. He told her what Jasper and Alice had found on that little deserted island out to sea. He told her how close the girl had come to complete and utter destruction. He'd told her about the days of worry, of what had happened to the police chief, what they'd discovered when she awoke, before finally, with halting, urgent ferocity, he told her what he'd found in the woods with Jasper.

"_Newborns, Rose… and plenty of them. Jasper thinks maybe a dozen. They know we're here, and they know we've found them. It's only a matter of time."_

"_Time for what?"_

"_For them to come,"_ he'd said, and her heart had gone cold. _"For them to find us, babe, and for them to try and take _her."

_Her._ Rosalie had fought the scowl, the instinctive recoil at the thought of _the girl,_ who had, in her weeks of solitude, come to mean something a little more than before.

"_I'll be there," _she had said. _"I'll leave this very minute."_

She hadn't said _I love you,_ and neither had he, for even when they were apart there could be no doubt. As she stood with him now, his fingers buried in her sopping wet hair, there was no need to say it still, for they both knew the truth of it.

Rosalie had never loved any creature more than she did him, and she had no doubts that he felt the same.

"We're gathered at the house," he said, after a long moment of pause. Rosalie said nothing. "We're… waiting."

"Waiting?"

"You're the first to arrive."

Rosalie, blinking in surprise, shook her head.

"You mean…"

"Yes."

"Has he been back at _all?"_

"No."

Rosalie was stumped.

"Have you gotten in touch?"

"Carlisle did," said Emmett, though this, she noted, did not come with his trademark grin. "Carlisle spoke with him. He's not happy."

Rosalie sneered.

"When is he ever?"

"Hey…"

She let her gaze fall.

"It's been…" Emmett spoke slowly, as if he could not find the words. "It's been… difficult."

"Oh?"

"She's… not quite right," he admitted. "Bella, I mean. Not _all there."_

"I didn't expect she would be."

Emmett's gaze was sharp.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that our brother is a proud and headstrong_ fool,"_ she said simply and Emmett had the gall to laugh. Sensing his mockery, she pulled away, her face suddenly dark with irritation.

"At least I _know_ what I am," she snapped, and at once, he looked contrite. "At least I know _who_ I am."

"Sorry."

Rosalie's eyes narrowed.

"Edward is a fool, Emmett, no matter which way you cut it."

"He's grieving…"

"Any grief he feels is of his own making," she said at once, and Emmett didn't refute her. "Any hardship has been by his own hand. _He_ brought her here,_ he_ bonded with her, and then _he_ decided to leave her. He'll have no sympathy from _me."_

"You don't even _like_ her."

"I don't _have_ to like her to know that I'm right," she said sharply. "You know my feelings, Emmett, and you know that they change absolutely _nothing._ Not for her, and definitely not for _him."_

"You know _my_ feelings are unchanged, too?"

She bit back her sarcasm.

"I expected as much," she said. "You're many things, Emmett, but you're not _fickle_."

"No."

Rosalie squared her shoulders.

"Do you _love_ her, Emmett?" she asked, and though the question hurt her, she did not relent. Emmett's frown was sharp, his lip curled in sudden distaste, before he answered.

"With my whole heart," he said, "but not at all in the way you're thinking."

Rosalie sighed.

"Then I guess that'll be enough," she said. "I love my family, Emmett. If they've chosen _this…"_

"They've chosen _her,"_ he said, and though his face was soft, she could hear a sudden hardness, a coolness in the way he spoke to her. _"We've_ chosen her, Rose, and I hope you understand what that means."

"I will stand by my family…"

"_She's_ your family too."

Rose bit back a scowl.

"Yes," she said, though the word felt sticky in her throat. "Yes, I think that's been made _perfectly_ clear."

* * *

Rosalie entered the house through the back door.

Standing in the familiar kitchen, her eyes roving over the pristine counters and polished, shining floors, Rosalie felt, for the first time in weeks, that she had finally come _home._ It was not like her to spend so long away— not without Emmett, at least, to keep her company— and there was something soothing, something _calming_ about the familiar sights and smells of her family.

Her mother reached her first, taking her up in a fierce and longing embrace.

"Oh, darling." She felt Esme's impulsive squeeze, her caress. "I'm so glad you've come home. Are you quite well?"

Over Esme's shoulder, she could see Carlisle's frown, his arms crossed over his chest as he observed their interaction. Rosalie studied him, knowing full well that he was looking right back at her as she fought to discern the mood she saw there. His face was smooth, impassive as a stone, but there was something strange in the darkness of his eyes— a coolness, perhaps, or wonder. He tried to smile at her— Rose saw how he fought to control his discontent— but he did not quite succeed, even when she narrowed her eyes.

"I'm well, Esme," she said, and her mother let her go. Carlisle did not come forward, did not embrace her as his wife had, but he glanced instead towards the living room where Rose could hear two more voices. She heard Jasper's voice, so soft and so muffled, and Alice's higher, sharper chirp, and when she heard the heartbeat, pounding its rhythm in the quiet of the house, she sighed.

"She's asleep," Carlisle said, and this more for Emmett's benefit than hers. "She still won't let him touch her, but she didn't seem to realize it when he helped her along."

Rosalie understood nothing and glanced at Emmett for an explanation. He gave none and Rose was left in the dark.

"I…"

"I can't _see."_

In an instant, as if she'd materialized by sheer force of will, Rosalie saw Alice in the doorway, her eyes as black as soot and her face drawn and pale. She stared for a moment too long— it was not like Alice to let herself run ragged, and Alice knew that she was looking when she scowled, eying Rose askance in return.

"Not so hot yourself," she snapped, and Rose bit back her retort. "I'm trying to _see,_ but I can't."

"Can't see _what?"_

"Anything."

Rosalie only stared.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I _still _can't see!"

"Not even…?"

"I saw_ you,"_ she said crossly, and as the tension rose, she saw Jasper rise from the sofa. "I saw you coming, and so I sent Emmett. And I can see that Edward has bought a plane ticket."

"He's still not _here?"_

"No."

Her surprise, well-guarded and invisible to most, was not so to Jasper.

"He's going to be_ furious,"_ her brother said, his lips pulled tight.

"I'm going to _kill _him."

Alice's retort was petulant, unhappy. Rosalie rarely saw her like this— it was _Rose's_ place to have the tantrums, and _Alice's_ place to soothe her out of them. Rose was never the comforter, and it felt odd for their places to be switched.

"Do you know when?"

"No."

"And what about the… _threat?"_

At once, all eyes had darkened.

"Did Emmett tell you?" asked Jasper, his face dark with mutinous displeasure. "What we found?"

"Yes."

"Good." He turned away from her, his eyes downcast. "Good."

Rosalie waited, the silence drawing thin.

"They'll come," he said, and Rose felt a tingle of terror down her spine. "They're bound to come."

"How long?"

"Could be hours, could be weeks," said Jasper. "We have no way of knowing. I had hoped…"

He glanced at Alice, who scowled darkly at the tile floor, but did not finish his thought.

"No matter. We'll know more when Edward arrives. He'll be able to give us insight."

Alice snorted.

"There's nothing to do but _wait,"_ she said, and this time her petulance had melted into outright anger. "We've got nothing at all to do but _wait."_

There was a noise from the living room— so soft that any other ears might have missed it— and when Rose heard the sharp intake of breath, she saw Alice sigh.

"I thought you said she was_ out?"_ she complained, shooting an accusatory look at her husband. For his part, Jasper looked contrite, if not a little guilty, as Alice turned away. She moved towards the sofa in a rush, as if she could head off whatever their neglect had set in motion, and on a whim, Rosalie followed her sister into the living room.

"It's alright, honey…"

The space, with which Rosalie was intimately familiar, was as unchanged as her memory permitted. The couches were the same, so perfectly arranged around tables and books. The windows were devoid of dust, the floors as nicely polished, and in the fireplace, against the farthest wall, was a crackling, merry blaze that oozed light and warmth. The sky outside was still stormy grey but it made little difference with all the glaring white of walls and furniture, and the only thing that Rose could find that was out of place was an untouched glass of tepid water on an end table, and a heaping collection of blankets that shifted and squirmed.

Beneath them, her little, pale face peeking out as if in horror, Rosalie saw the girl.

Rosalie was a vain creature, but she had never been so haughty so as not to recognize beauty outside of her own. She knew loveliness when she saw it and could admire a work of art just as eagerly as the next person, and she'd known from her very first glimpse of her in the high school cafeteria that Bella Swan was pretty. She had delicate features with soft cheeks only just devoid of their youthful roundness, and a complexion that would have made any of the teenage high school girls green with envy. All cream and rose petals, with pale tints of peach on her nose and cheeks, and such a depth of warm brown eyes that even Rose, whose own had been blue, felt a niggling envy. She was rounded, yet slender, with none of the muscular hardness that marked Rose's own kind as _other._ Her eyes were big, and her smile was sweet, and so when Rosalie saw the girl half-hidden beneath the blankets, she froze in complete surprise.

This creature— this utterly human _child—_ could not possibly be the same one she'd seen just months ago, on her last birthday.

"Rose is home, Bella," said Alice rather uselessly, for the instant they'd entered, those tired, brown eyes had fixed on her with a vengeance. Rose did not know what she saw in that face— horror, terror, disbelief, embarrassment— but whatever it was, it made her cheeks glow red, and she turned her face away into the mountain of plush blankets.

Rose turned at once to Emmett, her astonishment plain.

"Come with me," he said, and he took her by the hand to tug her away. "Come, Rose. Get changed. You're soaked, and…"

She did not need telling twice.

In the safety of her bedroom, where she had retained a meager supply of old clothing, Rosalie stripped out of her wet things and into the dry in a space no longer than a breath. Emmett was not watching her— he did not distract her with sweet kisses or provocative touches and for this, Rose was grateful, for she was filled with questions.

"I did warn you…" he said, though his voice was low with sorrow. "I told you. She's not the same."

Rosalie did not know what to say.

"Is she…?"

Emmett snorted.

"She's everything other than what she should be," he said, and his voice sounded pained, and quiet. Rosalie could feel his frustration rolling off of him in waves, and his sadness too, that made him so quiet. She could not abide it— could not tolerate this dejection for even a moment longer— and she did what little she could, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting him tuck his face into the hollow of her throat.

She felt his sigh, and his sweet, gentle kiss.

"I love you," he said, and it made her throat feel tight. "I love you, babe, and I'm glad you're home."

"Tell me, Emmett," she said. "Tell me what I've missed."

"We did it, Rose… we did _that."_

She swallowed, letting her eyes fall shut.

"We left, and that's what we did to her," he said. "She doesn't eat. She won't sleep— not unless Jasper helps her— and even then, she won't let him touch her."

"Is she afraid?"

"Hardly."

Rose waited for elaboration.

"She's _furious,"_ he said, and Rose gave an involuntary chuckle. "She's so angry, babe. He dosed her, a few days ago, and…"

Rosalie did not need to speak her understanding, for she knew that anger well enough. She liked Jasper— arguably more than she did brooding, sulky Edward— but he had an aura about him that could rub the wrong way. His was a _true_ gift, she knew— something heavy, and something _strange—_ and when it was used in the wrong way, that gift became an imposition.

Rosalie waited for more detail and when none came, she brought her lips down to his bent, curly head. She knew she had hurt him, this man of hers, when she'd refused to come the first time. She knew that he had missed her— he always did, whether he told her so or not— and she had missed him, too. There was nothing like it, the separation from one's mate, and as that thought came to her, so strong and so stubborn, she felt herself wince and pull away.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, not _nothing,"_ he persisted, and she let her arms fall away from him. "Tell me."

"You won't like it."

"I don't care."

Rosalie smirked, though it did not last long.

"Our brother is an_ idiot."_

From downstairs, she heard Alice's answering hiss.

"Not that one," she said, and the noise died down. "The other one. The one who _left."_

Emmett stared, his face betraying nothing.

"Look at us," she laughed, gesturing to his hand, which lingered on her waist. "Look at the way we are. We've been apart for just two weeks, and look at how we hate it."

"I know…"

"It's not _natural,_ Emmett. It's not _right."_

"What's not?"

"That he can stay away," she said. "That he _has_ stayed away."

"He thought it was for her own good…"

"Yeah, and look at how well that's worked out. No wonder she's not eating, Emmett. I'm sure he's not either. And sleep… I couldn't imagine it. Not in a million years."

He hugged her again, and she let him.

"It's not natural," she went on, "to send your mate away. It's not _right._ I don't agree with her choices, Emmett, or what we plan to do to her, but I can tell you this… what he did? It's not _right."_

"No."

"And if you ever do that to me?" She pulled away, watching the consternation on his face. "If you _ever_ do that to me, Emmett, I swear to God, I'll jump too, but I'll find a way to make it _stick."_

* * *

Carlisle listened to the quiet tones of conversation from the floor above, and he felt his dead heart squeeze in sympathy as he listened to his daughter's fierce, angry threat.

"Don't _eavesdrop,"_ Esme said, her voice cross and chastising. "It's not right. Give them their privacy."

"I needed to know," he said simply, and Esme only sighed. "If things were to get hostile between them again, I don't know what she might do. I don't know what _Bella_ might do."

"She's safe, my love, and well cared for." Her assurances fell flat, however, as she gazed at the shivering bundle beneath the blankets. It was the newest symptom on her ever-growing list— the child could not keep warm. Carlisle knew why— he had enough medical expertise, ranging over such a long span of time, that he'd seen almost everything at least once— though his knowledge did little to assuage him as he ran over cures and consequences in his mind.

The girl would not eat, and so she had grown thin. He had restarted her IV to hydrate her, at the very least, but she would take nothing more than a few bites of food at a time, hardly enough to sustain a small child. Her stomach was in knots, her mind so tangled that even _he_ could not find a way through, and were it not for Alice's dire warning against tube feeding, he would have started it days ago.

"_You'll only drive her deeper down, Carlisle,"_ she had warned with the knowledge of her foresight, so rare and so feeble when it came to their human. This warning had made him hesitate, and pause. _"You'll do more harm than good… just give her time. She needs time."_

And so instead, he'd piled her with blankets to keep the worst of the chill away. She was weaker than he'd like, and much too thin, but until she could regain some muscle and fat, she would only continue to deteriorate.

She was watching him now, her wide, unhappy eyes fixed resolutely on his face, and when he caught it, he smiled. She did not smile back— she rarely did, anymore— but she did clear her throat, voicing a question.

"Carlisle?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Why did Rose come back?"

He frowned.

"To be with her family," he said, and the girl went red as a beet. "To be with _us,_ where she belongs."

She looked away, abashed.

"Sorry."

"Whatever for?"

She turned away from him, her heart racing.

"I heard Jasper talking…"

At once, Carlisle felt his heart sink.

"Indeed?" She was quick, and shrewd, and she did not let him go so easily.

"Yes. He said that _they're coming."_

He saw her shiver as if a cold wind had ripped through the room, though there was no way she could feel any kind of draft huddled down beneath her covers.

It had been a finer point of contention, keeping their knowledge a secret. Jasper and Emmett had fought against it— had urged them to tell her, to _involve _her, as it was _her_ safety at risk, her life. Carlisle had been less certain— he did not want to frighten her, did not want to add any more fuel for the nightmares that already left her screaming in the night. Alice had been resolutely against it— the only thing, in reality, that had stopped Jasper from telling her anyways— and Esme had agreed. It would be too much, she said, for her raw and tender wounds. She was already so hurt, so _frightened…_ Esme would not tolerate any further injury, any added worry.

But not one of them had factored in her own curiosity, her penchant for finding out things she shouldn't.

"I don't know what you mean."

At once, her face darkened.

"Don't lie to me, Carlisle, please," she said, and her disdain was nearly palpable. "I expect that from the others, but not from _you._ Please, not from _you."_

He felt his shame, hot and sticky in his chest.

"I'm sorry."

"You always are."

"I know." He knelt, slow and careful, by the edge of the couch. "I know, honey… but it's the truth. I'm sorry for a great many things."

She stared, her face blank.

"Why did Rosalie come back?"

At the mention of her name, Carlisle saw Rosalie reappear on the stairs, frowning and confused.

"She came back for her family," he said, and though he tried to be delicate, the girl was not fooled. "She came back for_ us."_

"She's angry…"

Rosalie's frown deepened.

"I think she's cooled off."

"Jasper is worried."

Carlisle did not deny it.

"And it's not about _me._"

"We're all worried about_ you…"_

"Tell me the truth." There was a hardness, an _authority_ in that demand, so brazen and so earnest. "Please, Carlisle. Tell me the _truth._ I'm so sick of lies."

When she struggled to sit, he reached out to help and she did not turn him down.

"There's been a _development,_ sweetheart…"

From upstairs, there came Alice's angry hiss.

"_Don't, Carlisle…"_

He heard Jasper silence her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there is a threat," he said. "A grave threat, but one that I don't want you to worry about."

Even now, he could hear the increase in her blood pressure, the sudden, violent terror…

"I don't understand."

"It will be neutralized," he said at once, and this time, he saw Jasper appear beside his sister on the stairs. Rose moved silently from his path, letting him glide down on quiet feet, and Bella did not notice him until he was next to her, seated as close as he could get without touching her.

It still hurt him when she flinched away in surprise.

"It will be _handled,_ darlin', do you understand?"

"What _is_ it?"

Jasper pursed his lips, thinking. From upstairs, he heard another angry hiss, this time more worried, more _frightened._

"_Don't!"_

"You'll remember what happened last year?" he asked, and at once, Carlisle saw her shiver, the lingering fear rising to the surface in an instant. Almost as if by instinct, he saw her fingers twitch towards the white scar on her hand, where she'd felt just the barest beginnings of the burn that came with the transformation.

Jasper was grim, but determined.

"You'll recall, then, how we destroyed the offender?"

She nodded, her eyes suddenly wide.

"You mean…"

Jasper raised an eyebrow.

"_Him?"_

"No, doll. Not _him,_" he said. "Do you remember the woman?"

"Victoria?"

"That's the one."

She said nothing, her breath held tightly in her chest.

"She's been busy," said Jasper darkly, and this time, Carlisle saw Bella's sudden nerves, her worry. "She's been _very_ busy…"

Bella did not dare ask another question.

"You know so little about our world, darlin', and that's just how it ought to be," said Jasper, and for the first time in days, she did not recoil when he touched her, taking her trembling hand in his. "There are parts of our world that are so heinous, so _lawless,_ that it's a wonder we've not been outed to the wider world."

"And Victoria?"

"Has taken some pointers from those kinds of people," said Jasper. "She's building Bella."

"Building what?"

He hesitated before he spoke.

"She's making newborns— that is, new vampires. We are never more volatile, never more _uncontrolled,_ than in the first year after the change. We're ruthless, and savage…"

"I think that's quite enough." Carlisle's voice was low, but his concern for her blood pressure was high.

"I need to _know."_ She cut him off, her cheeks blazing with sudden heat. "I need to know, Carlisle, please... I need to _know."_

"She's been terrorizing you for months," said Jasper, and at once, her face went bone-white. "She's been playing with you, Bella, and I'm sorry we didn't see it."

"Charlie?"

"I'm sorry."

At once, her face crumpled.

"And now what?" she asked, and when she began to cry, Alice hissed again from upstairs. "What now, Jasper?"

"Now, we fight," he said simply, and at once her head snapped up. The horror on her face was almost tangible, almost _palpable_ in the room, and when she stared, first at Jasper, and then at Carlisle, he could see such complete and utter despair for which there were no words.

"No…"

"We will eliminate the threat," said Jasper, and Carlisle saw his grip increase on her hand. "We will _eliminate_ it, doll, and then you'll be safe."

"You'll be killed."

"Not likely."

"Oh my god…"

"That is _enough."_

Alice, appearing at the sofa, nearly crackled with incandescent rage. She glared at her husband, who was unapologetic and unabashed, and then at Carlisle, who felt the weight of this new grief. Her throat bobbed dangerously as she swallowed back the venom that had risen in response to her fury and she looked every bit the creature they fought so hard to hide— the bloodthirsty creature, the _temperamental_ creature… that creature who, rather than kindness and compassion, turned instead to impulse and terror and violence.

On the couch, taking no notice of Alice, Bella began to hyperventilate, each sharp inhale straining her broken ribs, still trying to heal. Alice said nothing, glaring so hotly at Jasper that it was a wonder he didn't burst into flame, but when he did not back down, staring right back with haughty impudence, Carlisle sensed the impending violence of a fight.

It was not often that those two went at it, but when they did, it was always explosive.

"Take it outside, if you're going to argue," he said, and as if the spell was broken, Alice turned her furious gaze on Bella, instead. The girl hardly noticed, even as Carlisle tried to coach her, and she simply wept, her tears disappearing into the blankets.

"No, Carlisle… No."

"No to what, darling?"

"You can't. You _can't_ fight… not for me."

"_Always_ for you."

She broke down all over again.

"Move," snapped Alice, and to his credit, Carlisle let her through. He did not leave, as Alice seemed to want so dearly, but neither did he hover, and instead he moved himself towards the staircase where Rosalie still stood, motionless.

"Has it been like this all week?" she asked, her voice too low to carry over Alice's useless soothing. "Has it been so… volatile?"

"Yes." Carlisle would not lie to her— not to Rosalie, who was neither delicate nor fragile. "It's been a mess, Rose."

"And her injuries?"

"Healing." He watched as Jasper rose, only to be batted away by his angry wife. "Those two saved her life, you know…"

Rosalie bowed her head.

"I'm sorry for that," she said, and at once, Carlisle's head snapped up. He loved his daughter, the oldest of the three, but he found it hard, sometimes, to express that love when she said such cruel and heartless things…

"No, no…" At once, her voice was softer. "Not like _that_, Carlisle. I'm only sorry it had to be _him."_

In response to this, Jasper glared at her from the room below, his teeth bared. This time she _did_ let her frustration show, the growl low and sharp.

"I mean because you _struggle," _she snapped and Jasper frowned, mutinous. "It's harder for you, is all, and I…"

Her words petered out, as if losing steam, and Carlisle reached out a hand. He was grateful when she took it, twining her fingers with his in a rare display of support, and when he spoke again, he redoubled his grip.

"Promise me one thing," he said, and at once, her eyes narrowed. "Promise me that you'll _try_, Rose. I know you don't like her…"

"I don't_ have_ to like her."

"No," he agreed, "you don't, but promise me that you won't make things _worse."_

Carlisle could not read her— he had never been able to, even when she was very young— but she took only a second to nod in agreement.

"I can promise you that," she said. "I can promise _Emmett_ that."

"He loves you."

"I know." Her smile was thin.

"And _I_ love you," said Carlisle. "I always have, Rosalie. I hope you know that."

She shot him a peculiar look— something between amusement, chagrin, and terrible curiosity— before she spoke.

"I _do_ know that," she said, and Carlisle saw no hesitation, no dishonesty. "I'm only sorry if I ever gave you the impression that I thought otherwise. I know I can be difficult…"

Carlisle chuckled, though it died out quickly as the tears on the sofa increased.

"I know it, Carlisle. But I really do appreciate you. And Esme."

"I'm glad…"

"And you are my family," she said. "I'm _proud_ to stand with you, even if this is the end."

"It's not."

"It might be."

"It's _not."_

When Jasper joined them, leaving Alice alone with the girl on the sofa, he was stormy with temper and furious at his own failure. Rosalie took to him at once, her own steadiness calming some of his disquiet before they moved, silent and soft, up the tall, narrow staircase.

Before she left him, Carlisle felt the ghost of her lips on his cheek— so rare, and so precious that it was almost a gift, a treasure. She said nothing more, not to argue or to soothe, as she disappeared up the stairs with her brother, both of them vanishing on the second floor landing.

At once, his attention was diverted to the sofa.

"No, honey…" He heard Alice's whisper, her _plea,_ in the soft, quiet hush. "No. That's not the answer."

"You can't do this, Alice. Please."

"We have no choice."

"There's _always_ a choice…"

"Not this time. Not this time, honey, and _not like this."_

"You can't, Alice. _Please."_

"We must."

"_Please."_

When Alice squeezed her eyes shut, pressing that sad, sorry girl to her heart, Carlisle knew that he had seen enough. Alice did not stop him as he made his way back, his hands outstretched to pull the girl away, to take those intangible hurts onto himself…

"Yes, honey." Alice held the girl a little tighter, and he halted his advance. "We will."

"You _can't…"_

"Why can't we?"

She held Alice in a grip so tight that Carlisle wondered where she'd found the strength.

"Please, Alice…"

"You must promise me," Alice said, and Carlisle heard the threat of tears, though they could not fall. "You must _promise _me, Bella…"

"I can't, Alice."

"You _can."_

Carlisle listened, but did not understand, as Alice spoke again

"There is no way in the world that I'm going to let you go, do you understand me?"

Humiliation— sticky and acrid— rolled from the weeping girl like steam, and Carlisle heard her renewed sobs of grief, of hot and terrible _shame. _He did not need Jasper's gift to see it— it was as plain as the nose on her face, though he could not immediately trace its source.

"We didn't bring you back so you could try again," Alice whispered. Carlisle understood at once, the meaning as clear as new glass, and he cursed his own heedlessness, his _recklessness_ at having caused this. Alice had warned him— had seen this breakdown in a flash of psychic prowess— and she had warned them off, but they had not listened…

"That is _not_ the answer," Alice said, though there was nothing else for it. "We're going to fight for you, Bella— we will _always_ fight for you— and I know we haven't always done the best job, but we'll be better. I _promise_ we'll be better."

"You don't owe me anything…"

"I owe you so much, Bella, that you couldn't even fathom it," Alice whispered. "You don't know how much I _owe_ you…"

"Stop it, Alice."

"Why is that so wrong?" she asked, and Bella shook her head. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that I _care, _honey? You're my best friend, my _sister, _and somehow I've failed you so horribly that you can't even _dream_ that I might care about what happens to you."

"Because it never made sense," she sobbed, and then Emmett was there, having listened to the whole, sorry tale. "It never made _sense_, Alice, for you to love me."

Carlisle, feeling useless and out of place, took a step away to let his son through. When Emmett reached for her, Alice felt no misgivings and she let her go with ease, watching as Emmett carefully resettled the trembling girl in his own arms.

Rosalie, watching with sorrow from the stairs again, did not dare say a word.

"You are absolutely _nuts_ if you think I'm going to let anything happen to you again," said Emmett. "Absolutely _mental, _honey. We _are_ going to fight for you— whether you like it or not. Whether you _believe_ it or not, I _love_ you. I don't let _anyone_ hurt the people I love."

"What if you can't stop it?" she sobbed, and Carlisle saw the pinch between his brows, the terrible, worrying unhappiness at this query. "What if there's nothing you can do?"

"Then at least we'll go down trying," he said. "I'm not going down without a fight, kiddo, and we sure as hell aren't letting _you_ go, either."

"It's not _worth _it."

"It's worth _everything," _said Emmett, cutting her off with a sharp rebuke. She did not flinch, did not pull away, but pressed her face into the coldness of his collar. "It's worth everything in the world, honey. My brother chose _you._ He brought you to us, and he made you _family."_

At the sound of _brother,_ Carlisle heard her break down all over again.

"I'm not worth it, Emmett…" At this, he growled, low and fierce. "I'm not worth the trouble… I'm not worth your _life."_

"You are worth every bit of it," he said, and at this proclamation, Carlisle saw Rosalie's head duck down. "You're worth it to _me,_ to all of us."

"I'm sorry…"

"Stop that."

She quieted, though only just.

"You _are_ worth it, because you're my _sister," _he said. "Maybe not by blood, but what does that matter, in the end? You're the family we _chose,_ Bella, because you're the one that made us_ whole."_

She shook her head, but his shushing kept her quiet.

"You didn't know my brother before you came," he said. "You don't know how miserable he was… how _unhappy._ You lit up his whole world, honey, and that in itself makes you worth it."

"He doesn't want me."

"You're wrong."

"No, I'm not," she said, and when she met his gaze, her eyes were red with crying. "I _know_ I'm not…"

"You're_ wrong,"_ he said, and though his words were firm, there was no unkindness there. "You're so, _so_ wrong. I don't know what he said to you— what he _did_ to make you believe him— but there's no going back, Bella. Not for him."

"You should have left me on that island," she said, and Carlisle felt his heart squeeze in sympathy. His middle daughter, furious and horrified, could only stare. "You should have left me there, Alice, and saved yourself all this trouble."

"_Stop_ that…"

"I'm sorry."

Alice's gaze shifted, moving once again into the future.

"No, Bella…" Carlisle did not need to see to know what she had found there. "No, Bella. _No."_

"I'm sorry…"

"Do _not_ leave her by herself," snapped Alice, her anger moving her beyond kindness now. She leapt from the couch in a fury, staring down at the trembling girl with frustration. "Don't give her even a _minute_ alone… not until this vision changes."

"What did you see?"

She snapped around to Emmett with a snarl.

"I saw _death,"_ she spat, and though her anger was righteous, it was tainted by a sudden, frightful worry. "I saw _her_ death. Don't let her walk alone in the yard, Emmett. If you do, she won't come back."

And though the girl cried again, this time tears of angry frustration, there was nothing Emmett could do but hold her close to keep her safe.

**A/N: Longest chapter yet, folks... over 8,000 words and a total of 28 pages. I struggled a bit figuring out the POV for this one too, but Rosalie was surprisingly obliging. For those of you who were confused about the last chapter (in your defence, it was a little bit obscure), I hope this helps clear things up. If it didn't, t****he most important points to take away are these: last chapter, Emmett and Jasper were tracking Victoria when they came across her "base", or the place where she's been holing up. She made herself a clearing in the forest, and has been creating newborns (similar to Eclipse). Jasper recognized the clearing for what it was, and brought this information back to the family. Emmett called Rose, and she came back to help (this chapter), and as we learned in this one, Carlisle made contact with Edward who has since purchased a plane ticket.**

**For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, you won't know why this chapter is a bit late (or later than my usual 1-2 day posting schedule for this crazy story). I had family come in from out of town for a weekend visit, so my time was spent with them rather than my laptop. If you want to follow me, you can find a link to my Twitter page in my profile.**

**Thanks again for all your love and support!**

**XO**


	13. Confrontation

**Chapter 12**

"I'm sorry I've been such a disappointment, Jasper."

In the quiet of the living room where they stood sentry at the window, the words broke the stillness like the shattering of glass. They had been like this for hours— silent in the dead of the night, waiting on tenterhooks for a shift, a _change._ It was his turn on duty— his turn to watch and to wait— and in the quiet of the night there had been no progress.

Her sleep was only shallow, hidden as she was beneath the thick comforter that she had always used when she stayed over, and Jasper could hear her moving, shifting in her sleep. The hour was late— the sun would rise in a few scant hours and she had woken two times already, all before the clock had struck midnight. She'd screamed herself hoarse on Emmett's watch, waking in a cold sweat that had at once infuriated and frightened him, and then again with Esme after she had tried to tuck her into her bed, instead letting her stay on the sofa. During each of these episodes Jasper had felt the terror seeping through the walls, fear leaching under the door like a sickness. It had spread wildly, billowing and puffing like a living mist, and he had stopped it, though Carlisle had asked him not to, for fear of what it might do if he let it touch him.

Carlisle was trying to medicate her— trying to convince her to take the chemical relief that would let her sleep— but whenever Jasper intervened, even just a little to stem the overflow of emotion, she resisted. She had refused his tablets just as she had tried to refuse Jasper's influence, but while Carlisle would not shove pills down her throat by force, Jasper had no qualms about protecting her, or himself.

They were taking it in turns to watch her, on Alice's sage advice. Since the onset of that first and only vision, the girl had not been left alone for a moment for fear of what she might do. Jasper's shift had started at three, and Alice had been more than willing to sit with him, to wait. It was she, after all, who had insisted upon this new schedule of observation, she who had demanded this intervention, this imposition. Jasper knew it came from a place of fear, but their family's quick and solemn agreement to her scheme had eased that distress somewhat, turning it from a harsh, vivid scarlet to a dull and simmering burgundy.

"I'm sorry," she said again and she reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers in hers. It always amazed him when Alice's skin met his, when her perfect, flawless touch ran patterns over his scars. That she could _love_ him, knowing the things he'd done…

"I'm sorry, Jasper." The third apology was unbearable. "I'm _sorry."_

He was on her, then, his arms around her slender waist and his hands splayed on the small of her back. She fit there, like a missing piece to his puzzle, and it felt right to hold her in his arms. She was just tall enough to reach his chin, her soft, feathered hair tickling his jaw, and he pressed a kiss to it, impulsive and sweet.

"You could never be that, Alice," he murmured, and the swell of love he felt for his wife increased tenfold. "You could never disappoint me."

"But I'm not _helping_ you, either," she returned with a sigh, nuzzling her cheek to his shoulder. "I've been so _angry, _Jasper. I still _am._ I only wonder what I do to you."

"You do nothing to me that I can't handle," he said and she frowned, tightening her grip. "You shouldn't apologize for your feelings, Alice. You can't help it."

"I can _control_ it," she reasoned. "At least to spare you."

"I don't want to be spared," he returned. "This is _all_ of our trouble, and we should bear it together."

She closed her eyes and he knew at once what she was looking for. The future was still muddy— too many decisions left unmade, too many worries left untended— and it complicated matters more than he would like. They relied on Alice's gift for a great many things— their finances, their work, their moves— and it was odd for them to be running blind.

"Nothing," she grumbled, and he kissed her again to soothe the agitation. "Absolutely _nothing, _and I don't know _why."_

Jasper blinked in surprise.

"Because it's not your call anymore, love," he said, and she frowned at him, confused. "It's not _your_ choices, or any of ours, that dictate our fate. It's _hers._"

Jasper's gaze shifted, moving from his wife to the prone figure on the couch. The golden blankets dwarfed her, snuggled in as she was to keep herself warm in the chilly night air. The embers of the fire had burned low, leaving behind only sizzling orange coals, but there was enough light for him to see her, clearly, from where he stood. Her face was to them, frowning even in sleep, and she shivered slightly, though she could not possibly be cold. Her legs moved beneath the covers, her fingers clenched on the satin fabric, and when her lips parted, there was only garbled, muffled noise.

At once, Alice fell away from him, her forehead pinched as she took a step closer to the sleeping girl, moving just near enough to brush her fingers over the warm, sleeping cheek.

"Oh, Bella…" Alice's voice was a whisper, a breath. "What in the world are we going to do with you?"

It had been three days since the episode, so stormy and so heated, on that very same sofa where she now rested. Three days since Rosalie's return, which had sparked such a flurry of nerves and upset. Three days since the meltdown, and three days since Alice had seen _anything_ that might be of use to them.

"_You should have left me on that island. You should have left me there, Alice, and saved yourself all this trouble."_

Her words, spilled so tearfully to his wife's tender ears, had stuck with him like a bad smell. He had heard them too— they all had— and it had hurt him to hear her speak so plainly. Jasper had thought he was doing her a kindness by pulling her from that water, by refusing to let _that_ be the cause of her untimely end. She did not deserve to die that way, cold, alone, and exposed to the elements, and Jasper had wanted to do her that very small favour— to bring her back to her home where she could be with the people who loved her.

But now, as he tasted the flavour of her worry and her crushing, melting _grief,_ he had begun to question that assumption and whether he had, in truth, done her more harm than good.

"_Stop that." _Alice's rebuke was sudden and he felt her fingers digging sharply into the flesh of his arm. She was frowning at him, her eyes dark with warning. _"Don't,_ Jasper. Just don't."

"Sorry."

She turned away.

"We did the right thing," she said, and this time, she knelt by the edge of the sofa, smoothing her finger over the puckering frown on the sleeping girl's forehead. _"You _did the right thing, Jasper. Never doubt that."

He laughed, though there was no humour in it.

"How can I not?" he asked, and Alice's gaze fell, perturbed. "Just _look_ at her, Alice. Look at what we've done."

"_We,"_ she hissed, "haven't done a thing. This is not our fault, Jasper."

"No," he agreed. "No, perhaps not, but we still played our part."

"You saved her life."

"I know."

"And that's a _good_ thing."

He pursed his lips. Alice watched him from the corner of her eye, her fingers resting on the sleeping cheek until the silence grew long and uncomfortable. Jasper did not ease it, either with his words or with his gift, and when Alice rose her expression was unreadable.

"It _is_ a good thing," she said. "I know it, Jasper, and deep down, so do you."

Looking down at that sleeping, perturbed face, Jasper felt only a nagging sadness, a shallow and nebulous guilt as he clenched his fists at his side. Every time he looked at her, Jasper could feel the snap of her ribs beneath his hands. He could feel the bruises, so soft and so hot…

"It _should_ have been," he said finally, and Alice huffed. "It should have been, Alice, but now, I'm not so sure."

"Then trust _me,"_ she said, and then she was next to him, his cheeks between her palms. "Trust_ me, _Jasper, if you don't trust yourself."

"I always trust you."

She kissed him, lingering for the barest, briefest moment.

"Then _believe _me," she whispered, and she hugged him hard around the neck. "Believe me when I tell you… we did the _right thing."_

The smell of her, so sweet and so familiar, was like a balm.

"She's miserable."

"I know."

"She's _sad,_ Alice…"

"I know."

"She wants to die."

Alice pulled away again, her mouth set.

"I _know."_

Jasper watched her, inscrutable as she was, and felt, ever so slightly, for the sadness he was expecting. Instead, there was a wall of such pigheaded determination that he pulled his gift back, blinking in surprise.

"That's _not_ going to happen," she said, and for the first time all night, Jasper truly believed that she meant what she said. "She's not going to die, Jasper. Not under my watch. She's _alive_ because of us… because of _you._ I'm not going to let her throw it away again."

Jasper moved forward, his hand outstretched, but he could not bring himself to touch the girl, so warm and so soft. His hand hovered over her, feeling the warmth that seemed to radiate from every cell of her body, but he did not bring his hand down, did not dare to disturb the rest he'd so graciously given her. He could feel her breath on his hand, so steady and so strong, and the rhythmic, defiant beat of her heart. That sound soothed him, made him feel as if, perhaps, he _had_ been right after all.

"She frightens me, Jasper." The admission was raw, tremulous. "She scares the living _hell_ out of me."

"Why, Alice?"

"Because I can't _see."_ The whisper was soft, and almost sad. "And because I can't _know."_

"Know what?"

Her eyes were liquid gold, swimming with tears she would never shed, and as he watched her, he felt her soft, careful intrusion. Alice knew better than of any of their family how to control herself, how to keep him from feeling her sorrows unless she meant him to. She knew how best to guard her feelings, how best to keep him safe from _herself_, at least, and when she reached out to him, so careful and so hedging, he took it in to himself, letting her anxiety roll over him like a rising tide.

"I don't know what to _do,"_ she said, and he felt her hopelessness, her worry. "I don't know how to help her, Jasper, and I'm afraid that if I don't figure it out…"

"It's not your fault."

"It doesn't matter." Like an elastic pulled too tight, he felt the snap of her control, her careful shielding of herself from him. He did not reach out— did not pry where he was not wanted— and instead he listened, impassive and calm. "It doesn't _matter_ if it's not my fault. None of that will matter, if she finds a way around us…"

For just a moment— only the briefest, quickest moment, Jasper saw the rise of her frustration, her _anger_ at the girl on the couch. He knew it was not rational— anger rarely was— but he felt a swell of sorrow, and of deep, protective _defense_ for the sleeping child he was guarding.

"It's not her fault either, Alice. None of this is. She can't help feeling the way she does any more than you can… and if you think _you're_ afraid, I wish you could feel just a morsel of what she suffers every single day. She can't _help_ it, Alice. She really can't."

Misfiring neurons, failed chemical connections… entire systems run amok in an effort to regain equilibrium, to find a new normal in this sea of torment. Her mate lost. Her father dead, and most likely her mother, too. Her own life endangered, and their family's safety threatened…

It was no wonder she wanted out.

"I know that." Alice sounded stung. "I _know,_ Jasper… and that makes it worse."

"Yeah."

"I've never seen anyone try so hard," she said, and in her sleep, the girl began to titter. He felt the rising anxiety— the prelude to the storm of waking, to which they had grown so accustomed— and as if on instinct, he cast out his calm to soothe it, to soothe _her. _Carlisle would not be happy with him, but Jasper reasoned that he did it as much for himself as he did for her. He could not bear another bout of stormy, frightened tears, and he didn't want to look at her again and see the moment when she realized that her life was not a dream, that the things she saw in her own mind were not merely figments of an overactive imagination, but horribly, dreadfully _real._

The girl settled at once, snatching the gift he gave her without so much as a whiff of resistance, and he gave it willingly, watching her settle into a deep, dreamless slumber.

"I just wish…" Alice trailed off with a shake of her head, fidgeting with the covers that had fallen loose. She fussed over the girl, tucking the blanket under her chin, her hair behind her ear, before there was nothing else to do and Jasper grew antsy.

"What do you wish, Ali?"

"I wish that we could be enough, Jas. That we could be enough for_ her._"

He shook his head, displeased.

"It _kills_ me," Alice continued, and Jasper bit his tongue. "She made it so easy for me to love her, Jasper. So,_ so_ easy, and she loves us, too."

"Not in the right way," said Jasper, and as if to reassure himself, he pulled Alice close, and tight. "Not in the way she needs, darlin'..."

"I know_._" Her arms were tight and fierce. "I_ know,_ Jas. If you ever left me…" There was a little shiver, and a frown, before she found her words again. "If it were me in her place, I might want to die too."

"Never." His lips were insistent, and she did not resist. He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her lips, and he banished the very thought of it from his head. He could _never_ leave her, could never _abandon_ her... not his sweet little love who had brought him out from the darkness, who had shown him what _family_ was. Alice had given him his life back in a time when he'd thought all was lost. She had given him kindness. She had given him _love._

He had no idea what she got in return for loving him the way she did, but he would not question it, would not push.

"Bella Swan is _not_ going to die," she said, and Jasper did not answer her determination with any more words of doubt. "She is _not _going to die, Jasper, because our brother is coming _home."_

Jasper only hoped that this would be enough.

* * *

Their worry did not ease, nor did the tension lift until the darkness of the morning had given way to the weak, grey light that heralded the dawn.

Jasper had always loved a sunrise, had always admired most keenly that moment when the gloom and mystery of night gave up its secrets. The dawn was the start of a new day, the moment when the world came alive again under the power of the sun, and it was a time of warmth, of gladness. Jasper lived for new days— each one fresh, with no mistakes— and he longed each day for the slate wiped clean, for a new chance to simply _be_ without the sorrows of yesterday. They did not sleep and so the passage of time seemed fleeting, but Jasper tracked himself by the rise and fall of that great, celestial orb, knowing that no matter what had happened, or what was wrong with the world, that the sun would go on rising just as long as there was someone there to admire it.

As Jasper watched that sunrise, each second bringing new colours and shadows to the world outside, he felt the first pangs of wakefulness from the girl on the sofa, though she was still occluded by her restless, shallow slumber. It would not be long before she woke— Jasper's influence, no matter how strong, had gone on too long, and he'd pulled it back when the light had come, knowing that if it was not desirable_, _it was, at least, _necessary. _

She shifted on her pillow, her face screwed up as if in terrible concentration, and when she spoke, the word made him freeze.

"_Edward."_

Jasper turned to the window again to hide his temper.

His friend— the man he had come to admire and to respect as his _brother_— had become something of a pariah in Jasper's mind of late. They did not speak his name— did not give him any more consideration than they might a fly— and yet, there was something unspeakably _wrong_ about his absence, about the way of things without him here. Jasper liked his brother— on good days, he might dare to say he _loved_ him— but he could not reconcile that love with the damage he'd done, with the havoc he'd wrought on this small and tender mortal.

Looking at her was like looking at a broken thing— something so tired and soul-weary that it was a wonder she found the strength to rise each day. Edward had allowed himself to care for her, and that care had led to the unbreakable bond of their kind. He had _loved_ her, and that love had ruined her. Before this, Jasper would have said that it was impossible for one of _her_ kind to feel the bond so keenly, but the evidence of his folly was right before him, plain proof that he had been so terribly, awfully _wrong._

As Jasper had tested her, _felt_ her, he had discovered the ugly truth in the span of a single heartbeat. He had tasted it in the air like rot, had felt it in the wind like a bitter, icy cold. He felt that hollow in her chest— the place where her heart had been— and he felt the emptiness, the raw, stinging edges. He felt the way it ate at her like a parasite, each day taking more and more away from the whole, and he wondered how long it would be, now, until she disappeared altogether, consumed by her own grief that would not be assuaged.

Jasper had felt that broken, frayed bond, and he had felt the destruction it had left behind from its violent, angry cleaving.

She stirred again, and he rested his fingers on his chin.

As they waited in the glow from the slowly rising sun, Jasper knew that there was nothing he could say, nothing he could _do_ to make the world make sense again for her. He knew what he saw in the sunlight each day— the truths of the world laid bare at his feet, ripe for his examination— and he wondered, as the sun began to creep over the polished wood of the floor, what that same sun might show to Edward, if he would only stop to _look._

His brother had always loved the twilight hours— those moments when light faded and indigo skies reigned supreme— but Jasper was a braver soul than he. Edward had always mourned the dangers of the sun— the danger of the light, of the warmth— and so he relished those few, short moments, when there was still light enough to see, but not enough to know, or to _feel. _Edward feared the future like a sailor feared a storm, and Jasper wondered just how often that fear had taken hold, to sink its teeth in deep.

How fitting for Edward, Jasper thought, to lend so much power to an ending. To give his love and his meager joy to the belly of the night, which held no ground at the breaking of the dawn, no life but that which skulked and creeped. In the daylight, one could see, and to see was the first step of knowing. If he looked, Jasper knew, in the bright light of day, Edward would see all of his failings, his mistakes. If he looked too hard, he might not be able to go back.

So as Jasper admired the dawn, relishing the rising warmth and light, he knew, without a doubt, that the brother they awaited would be terrified— terrified of the sun, which shone too brightly, and terrified of what it would show him once he finally stopped to _look._

* * *

In the quiet of the morning, just as the clock struck eight, Alice watched as the layers of sleep were pulled away and the girl was left blinking, surprised at the dull, hazy glow coming in through the window.

"Good morning." Alice made her jump, and she fought back her grin. "Sleep well?"

"What time is it, Alice?"

"Nearly eight."

She frowned, sitting herself up. In the dimness of the living room she blinked, slowly and carefully sitting herself upright until she rested, rather breathless, against the arm of the sofa.

As she took her inventory, Alice could only stare, her smile wan.

Each morning was the same, and each morning a struggle as Bella worked to take in the changes to her body, the subtle shifts in her progress and her healing. It had been just over two weeks since her leap from the cliff, and two weeks was scarcely enough to change a thing, and yet, as Alice watched, she noticed the differences, the progress that had been made. For one, when she sat up, it was only the second time she'd done so without a helping hand behind her back. Her ribs were all knitted now— Carlisle's most recent x-ray had confirmed that for her— and so it was easier to breathe, too, and she hadn't used the oxygen tank for nearly five full days. She was still too thin— she did not eat nearly as much, or nearly as often as she should— but there was a fullness to her cheeks, now, and her colour had started to return. The bruises on her chest had gone from black, to blue, to a faintly mottled green, and the marks on her arm where Jasper had pulled her from the water had faded to a murky, muddy brown that was itchy, but no longer sore.

"My head doesn't ache," she said, "and I can't believe I _slept."_

"Jasper's doing," said Alice with a grin, and at once, Bella turned her shy gaze towards the stairs, where he was sitting. Her grin was quick— just a flash, to say thanks— but it warmed Alice's heart to the core.

It was the first smile she'd seen since their reunion and though it was weak and thin, it was a _start._

"You must be hungry."

"Not really…" Her stomach, wasted and thin beneath her shirt that was too big, gave a snarl in defiance. "I'm not really_ feeling _it, you know?"

Alice was up in a matter of seconds.

"Your body says otherwise," she said and Bella tried to rise, but Alice pushed her back down. "You stay right there. I'll get it. What do you want?"

"I can do it, Alice. No need to trouble yourself."

"Stay."

"Really, Alice. I'm not an _invalid."_

"You're close enough," laughed Alice. "Now tell me. What will it be?"

"Nothing."

"If you don't tell me, I'll pick for you. And God knows I've got _terrible_ taste in breakfast foods."

There was another smile, and a breath of laughter, before she rested her cheek on her knees with a sigh. Alice watched her eyes fall shut, her stance relaxed and easy, before took her lip between her teeth and answered.

"Toast is fine."

"Perfect."

"Thank you, Alice. Really. You don't have to."

"It's the _least_ I can do, until you're no longer broken. Just hang tight, Bella. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Jiffy sounds good…"

"Peanut butter it is," laughed Alice. "Give me five minutes, Bella. It won't take long."

"Thanks."

Alice snuck away.

Finding the bread in the box on the counter, Alice fished out two pieces and popped them into the toaster that they had never used. She had plugged it into the wall, fiddling with the dial and the chrome handle that wiggled, a little too loose and too noisy. She had barely time to put the bread down to toast, pushing the lever to hear the click, before the world disappeared around her in a rush, and her vision was lost in a sea of thick, forest green.

It struck her hard— a vision like none she'd ever seen before, and one that she was sure she would never see again. Alice did not recall her first foray into the future, the moment when she'd realized that what she saw in her visions was _real,_ but she had imagined it many times, that initiation of her Sight. She had imagined the clarity of it, the weight of the realization, and as she was pitched again into the unsettling realm of what was yet to be, she felt that jolt, that giddy, terrifying electricity that she had only ever imagined when she tried to conjure up those fleeting, feeble human memories.

The vision was not a long one, but it was sharp. She saw the world with perfect clarity as it would be just one hour from now, and she heard the sounds, felt the wind, on her cold, hard skin.

She was running, she knew, on feet that were as still as stone. She was taller, too, and faster, and she looked away from the path to stare into the lazy, winding stream that blew by. That blur sent a reflection back— one that was at once her own, and so completely different that she blinked, giving a double-take.

Her hair was not black, but burnished, bronze-gold. She was taller. She was stronger. She was faster, by all accounts, than even _she_ had ever been, and as she came back with a snap, she felt the coldness of the tile beneath her hands.

She was kneeling, now, the vision bringing her to her knees. The tiles beneath her were cracked, splintered into pieces where her knees had struck, and it was Jasper who touched her, his fingers tensing on her cheek. He radiated his worry with every touch, his eyes fixed on her so fiercely that she could not look away, and though his lips were moving, forming words, she could not make out what he had said.

"...must know."

"What?"

He stared at her, then, and hauled her to her feet.

"I said _we must know,_ Alice." His face was very close, now, and she leaned away to see. "You must tell me, love, if we are in danger."

"Danger?"

He frowned, bending down to face her.

"Victoria," he said, and at once, Alice shook her head. "The newborns, Alice…"

"No." In an instant, she had backed away, her back hitting the cabinets. "No, Jasper. Not them."

There was silence for a moment— he watching, she avoiding— and when Jasper spoke again, he chose his words most carefully.

"It's _him,_ isn't it?"

Alice didn't need to ask who he meant.

"Yes."

"How long?"

"About an hour."

"So soon?"

"Yes…"

"We must tell her."

Alice's head snapped up, her body tense.

"We _can't,_ Jasper. Not yet."

"We hardly have time to wait, Alice."

"We have time _enough."_

Jasper only sighed, his face downcast.

"It's going to hurt either way," he said. "Better do it quickly, and get it over with."

"I don't agree."

"I know." He stroked her arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "I know you don't. But what other choice do we have?"

"Choice about what?"

At once, Alice froze, and Jasper looked guilty, though not ashamed. Alice glared at him with hot accusation but he simply ducked his head and moved away, ghosting across the floor to lurk in the shadows where he would watch, but would not be seen.

Behind her, standing in the doorway, was the girl, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her back hunched to ease the pressure on her ribs. She was watching Alice with a quiet concentration, her face screwed up as she tried to understand what she had heard, and when she said nothing, Alice was forced to speak.

"I burned your breakfast," she said, pulling the two, blackened pieces from the toaster. Bella didn't move, her frown fixed in place. "I'll have to make another. You should go and sit down."

"All I ever do is sit," she complained. "And sleep."

"You need it."

She grunted.

"I want to _move,"_ she said, and Alice did not complain when she began to make the food herself, sliding two more pieces of bread into the toaster and adjusting the dial on the front. When she was satisfied, she pushed them down. "I want to _do_ something, Alice. I've been sitting still for far too long."

"You're healing."

Alice could almost see the eye roll she fought to contain.

"And I'll _be_ healing for weeks yet," she said. "I don't hurt half so bad, and the headache has finally gone."

"That's good."

The toast began to darken, and Alice turned away.

"Butter here, and there's some jam in the pantry…"

"What did Jasper mean, when he was talking about _choice?"_

Alice closed her eyes, cursing him to the deepest bowels of hell.

"Nothing, Bella."

The girl scowled.

"Don't _lie,_ Alice," she said, and there was hurt in her voice, affront. "If you don't want to tell me, then fine. But please don't _lie."_

"I'm _not_ lying. He meant nothing by it."

"He knew I was listening."

"Yes, I daresay he did."

"Did you?"

Alice faced her again, and she saw the rising anxiety with deepest regret.

"No."

She began to butter her toast.

"Will you not tell me?" she asked. "Or am I still too damaged, too _fragile, _to handle it?"

"It's not like that…"

"Or maybe you think I'll go and off myself, if you tell me." The words stung and Alice growled. "Maybe you'll think I'll run back to the woods…"

"Not in your life," said Alice darkly, and the girl's mouth fell shut. "You know me better than that, Bella. I love you, and I want you to be happy, but I'm not about to let you kill yourself to make things easier for us."

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it?"

"No." She dropped the toast onto a napkin, uneaten and cooling. "It's not."

Alice bit her tongue.

"Are you going to tell me or not? I promise not to freak out."

Alice laughed.

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Bella. There's been enough of that all around, I think."

When the girl flinched, her face pinching with sudden hurt, Alice knew she had gone too far. She saw the way she turned, her eyes downcast to hide her affront, and Alice reached out a hand to stop her leaving.

"I'm sorry," she said at once, and when Bella did not pull away, Alice drew her into a hug. "I'm sorry, Bella. I don't mean to be so boorish."

"It's fine… I know I'm a pain."

"That's not what I mean and you know it." She pressed her lips to the pale cheek, soaking up the warmth. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cruel, but sometimes, I think it's kinder for you not to know."

Bella groaned, pulling away.

"I'm sick to death of not knowing," she said, and Alice heard the truth of it, the honesty. "I just want to know what's going on. Did you… _see_ something? Finally?"

Her silence was loud enough and it took only a moment for the girl to jerk away, her face suddenly pale and her voice thin and weak.

"_What, _Alice? What did you see?"

"Hush, Bella, don't look like that. It's nothing so very terrible…"

"Oh God." She pulled away completely, avoiding Alice's reaching hands. "You saw_ her,_ didn't you? You saw her _here._ Oh God, Alice…"

"No, I did _not."_ She shook Bella's shoulders, as gently as she could, but when she saw the wince Alice pulled her hands away. "No, Bella. Don't put words in my mouth…"

"Then _what?"_ Her breakfast, forgotten on the counter, was cold, though neither of them seemed to notice or care. Bella watched her with such consternation, such _worry_ in her gaze that Alice felt her resolve crumble at her feet, and though she knew the words would hurt, she spoke them anyways.

"I saw _him,_ Bella." The girl blinked in surprise. "I saw him back_ here,_ in little more than an hour."

The seconds ticked by like eons as the words sunk in, and as they did, Alice saw the churning feelings like a film. In the corner Jasper bristled, shifting restlessly against the far wall, but Alice spared him only a stony, rigid stare and a low, warning murmur.

"_You insisted,"_ she said, so soft that Bella did not hear. _"You insisted on this, Jasper, so let it run its course."_

The answering rumble was displeased, but he did not move from the spot he'd chosen.

"You mean…" There was a war on her face, and each second brought about a new victor to claim its spoils. First was surprise, so wide-eyed and innocent, before it was quashed by disbelief, and shock. Next had come worry, and a cold, steely fear, before there was sadness, and guilt. That guilt lingered too long— Alice saw it warring with everything else underneath— but when it was finally ousted and the winner set in stone, it was _hurt _that Alice saw, settling into every facet and every line.

"Don't _look_ like that, Bella," she begged, but the girl only backed away, her head down. _"Please_ don't look like that. It will be alright. You'll see…"

"No."

Alice frowned at her.

"What do you mean,_ no?"_

"I mean _no."_

"I can't stop him, Bella. Not now. He's going to come, and…"

"_No,_ Alice."

"We need him."

The girl looked up, her eyes swimming.

"We _need _him. We can't hope to win this fight without him, especially not if she changes any more newborns."

The terror at the thought of the threat was fleeting, and Alice watched with sinking regret how even _this_ did not eclipse the newest worry, the newest _fright. _Beneath the hurt, under all that anger and grief, there _was_ a fear, though not like the one she held for Victoria. Alice understood that fear, even if she did not agree with it, for it was the same fear that she, herself, felt at the thought of the impending violence, their defense of their family and what was theirs. Victoria, for all her posturing and her threats, could only kill— she could take a life, leaving behind nothing but piles of smoky, purple ash, and when she did, the world would go on turning. If they died, that would be the only end— but the world would go on just as it had been, and just as it always would be.

But Edward… Edward had a power over her that not even Bella herself could take back. Victoria might kill her— indeed, Alice often wondered if this was not part of Bella's grand, final scheme— but_ Edward…_ he could_ wreck_ her. And knowing that they _needed_ him— that Edward was integral to their fight, their struggle— made Bella go silent.

It was a long, tense moment before she spoke again.

"I shouldn't be here, Alice."

At once, Alice's outrage melted into worry.

"Yes you absolutely_ should_ be. There's nowhere else you belong _more_ than right here, honey. I won't let him ruin that for you."

But the girl was on her feet now, wincing when she moved to quickly and pulled at the tape on her ribs. She stumbled from the kitchen, lurching dangerously towards the stairs where Jasper caught her, bright with concern.

"Bella, _please._ Everything will be okay…"

"No, Alice." She turned now, and there were no tears glazing her cheeks, no pretty pink blush. Her face was hard, determined, and there was something about it that set Alice on edge, that made her stomach jolt with terrible, awful nerves.

"No. I _shouldn't_ be here because I don't _want_ to be," she said, and at once, Alice felt her fear bubble over. "I don't want to be anywhere _near_ here when he shows up, because I don't want to _look_ at him, Alice. I can't _bear_ to look at him again, when I know that all he wants to do is _leave."_

And she was up the stairs, with more agility than Alice gave her credit for, and she heard the slamming of that spare room door before a terrible, keening cry, and the sound of a heart breaking, as delicate as crystal being shattered on the floor.

* * *

In the shadow of the trees, just out of sight of the great, white house, Alice stood motionless, her body as tense as a bowstring. She stared into the gloom of the forest, her gaze as hard as marble, and she waited, her feet poised to pounce, her hands clenched into fists.

Back at the house, where the world was calm and familiar, she had left her family without a noise or a whisper. Her parents had been talking, heads bent in consternation as they lurked outside of the bedroom whose door was locked and whose occupant had gone silent. Bella, despite their prying, had admitted no visitors and accepted no consolation. Emmett was running patrols— scanning, she knew, for Victoria and her newborns. He would find her soon— would follow the scent and find her lurking like a gargoyle in the dark. There would be questions asked, accusations flung, but as she waited on tenterhooks for what she knew was coming, she couldn't bring herself to care.

Hate, for her, was not a common feeling, despite her years and her experience. Alice did not hate many, and she did not hate lightly, for she knew that this hatred, no matter how deep a satisfaction it brought, would hold more power over _her_ than it would her target. She had learned through bitter, hard experience that it did no good to harbour judgment, that it did not serve to collect her hurts like trophies on display, but as she enumerated each and every blow her brother had dealt, she found that it was hard to let them go. Each harsh word, each angry tirade… she felt each one as keenly as a knife, as sharp and unrelenting as a sickening, festering wound. Hatred, she knew, was strong, but it was this that welled inside her like a poison, like a threat. It was hatred that she felt in the stirrings of her heart, and hatred that drove her to stand here, waiting.

Alice loved her brother. Even now, even when she was so filled with toxic, noxious _ire,_ Alice could not deny that she loved him. She had been close to Edward— closer, in truth, than any of the others, save perhaps their father. Edward trusted her. Edward _cared_ for her. It had been _she_ he'd trusted with the secret of his love, and _she_ who had been the first to welcome the girl into her heart, before she'd even had the chance to know her. He had pleaded with her, begged her on bended knee not to judge him too harshly, and Alice had obliged. That was her folly, she knew, and her downfall— she always gave in too quickly, distributed her love too freely, and _this_ was her consequence, her punishment.

In all her years of life, and from all the people she knew and loved, Alice had never before felt so deceived, so completely and utterly _betrayed _by someone to which she had opened her heart, her soul. He was her _brother—_ as much as if they'd been born from the same flesh and blood— and he had used her, and left her behind. He'd given her a sister and then had yanked her away in the blink of an eye. He'd given her _himself,_ so joyous and complete, and he, too, had been stolen. He had broken their family, left them scrounging in the dust, and all because he couldn't find it in him to give Bella the life she wanted, the life she had so richly and honestly _deserved._

It was all too much, and Alice would not stand for it.

When she heard his footsteps in the distance, she readied herself to spring. It was only a moment before she could see him, only a second before he stopped, and when he did, Alice was able to finally look, to _really_ look at him, for the first time in nearly half a year.

He emerged from the gloom like a ghost, his pale, white face a shadow of the man he had been just months ago. Time did not hold the same power over them as it did humans, but even Alice could tell that something had changed. She had known Edward well before he had met his mate, and this new version of him was quite similar to the man he'd been then, but there was something else, something _wilder_, that gave her reason to pause.

He found her quickly, though she did not move, and she saw the way he surveyed her as if in surprise. His pallor was as white as paper, his lips set in such a hard, immovable line that it was a wonder it hadn't fused shut. His body was tense, as wiry as she remembered it, and his face as handsome and soft, but his eyes— those angry, ebony pits— were so far gone from the boy she remembered that Alice felt a stirring of actual fear before he began to step forward.

"Alice…"

At once, her teeth were on edge.

"You came."

"Of _course_ I came." His voice was a growl, so low and so righteous. "Of _course _I came…"

"_Why_ did you?"

He blinked in surprise.

"Because my father asked me to," he said, and Alice felt venom in her throat. "Because he called me, Alice, and…"

"_I_ called you."

He ducked his head.

"I know."

"Did you listen to what I said?"

"Some."

"And?"

"There is nothing left to say."

"You know what you did?" His eyes flashed a warning, but she did not relent. "You know what you did to _her?"_

"It was for her own safety."

"Fat lot of good it did."

"I asked you to stay away."

"I know."

"And you didn't listen."

"No, I didn't."

His gaze was hot, then, accusatory.

"She deserves better, Alice," he said. "She deserves so much _more…"_

"Don't you _dare_ tell me what Bella deserves."

"What _would_ you have me say, then?" He turned from her, his black eyes searching the forest, instead. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"It's not about what _I _want…"

"Then what _is_ it about?"

She rounded on him with a vengeance.

"It's about what you've _done, _Edward! It's about what we've _all_ done! It's about the life we ruined, and the life we've _saved,_ and the life you so carelessly abandoned, knowing what was out there, just lying in wait!"

He glared at her, suddenly hot with anger.

"I knew _nothing!"_ he hissed and his advance was threatening. "I knew _nothing_ of these dangers, Alice… you think I would have left her, had I known?"

Alice only laughed at him.

"It was your _job_ to know," she spat, and she, too, began to stalk forward. "Your _job, _Edward. She's_ your_ mate… and yet where were _you?"_

"Trying to keep her _safe!"_

"She's as far from safety as she's ever been in her life," snapped Alice. "She's got _nothing,_ Edward, and no one."

"Her father…"

"Is dead!" Her voice rang through the trees, bouncing back in mocking echoes. "By _our_ folly!"

He did not answer, but the shock was evident on his face.

"And then she…"

"She_ what?"_

"Did you hear _anything_ I said to you on the phone?"

He only growled, his temper rolling like thunder.

"Of course not." She turned from him, her jaw set. "Of _course_ not. So high and mighty, Edward… but never mind. You'll find out soon enough."

"You'll tell me _now."_

She rounded on him, furious.

"I will_ not_ take orders from _you!"_

"I have a _right _to know! She's _my _mate!"

"Yes, she is." Her voice was flat and unkind, "but you forfeited that right the instant you _left_ her."

"I'm warning you, Alice…"

She laughed outright then, the threat of his words gliding over her without a wink.

"You should be _thanking_ me," she said, and he growled, low and deep. "You should thank _all_ of us for refusing to abide your asinine plan for even a minute longer, and—"

"And _what?" _his voice was a hiss, so sudden and so sharp. "What do you want me to say, Alice? You want me to_ thank_ you for defying me? You want me to kiss your feet because you disobeyed?"

And at once, she was on him.

Alice could not remember a time when she had felt so viscerally, frighteningly _angry._ It crawled through her belly and up her throat to choke her, and she moved with a purpose and a goal as she leapt through the wet, green forest. Edward saw her coming— Alice registered the mild surprise, the sudden twist of sorrow— but it did him no good. She was on him like a cat, her fingers scratching at whatever bits of him that she could reach and he only just held her off. He would not hit her— even as angry as he was, Alice knew that— but this lapse only made her angrier, desperate for a fight.

When he tried to hold her off, to take her hands and pull her away from him, she felt her ire bubble over and she slapped him, the noise snapping through the trees like a gunshot.

"You absolute_ coward!" _she hissed as he touched the spot where she had hit. "You absolutely hateful_ fool!"_

"Alice…"

She slapped him again.

"This is _all_ your fault!"

"Please…"

"Shut your mouth!" Her voice was raised now, and shrill. "Shut up, Edward, just _shut up!"_

"Alice, that's _enough."_ Edward's hands, gentle and coaxing, pushed her far enough away so that her third blow did not land. She was spitting with rage, wanting to _ruin_ the brother she had loved, to wreck him like he'd wrecked _her._ She wanted him to _feel_ her ire, to taste the heat of the flame that burned so brightly in her heart, and so she struck him down in other ways, her mind screaming as loudly as she could to make him_ understand._

In the perfect recall of her memory she watched the girl's fall again, her desperate, whispered pleas as she threw herself from the cliff. She watched her slip into the water, the glint of that golden heart pendant, before she showed him her face in vivid, awful clarity. He was cowering before her, now, his face a tortured mask of disbelief, of _horror,_ but Alice did not relent, taking him through the whole, terrible ordeal from her resuscitation on the beach to Carlisle's skillful, worried intervention. He saw the tube in her throat, felt Alice's overwhelming, hopeless terror, and when she showed him how she'd woken, and how she cried, she saw him turn away, his face as white as bone.

She was out of Edward's hold in an instant when he stumbled back, his eyes swimming with horror at the things she'd shown him.

"_Look_ at me, you coward," she growled, and she _forced_ him to look, to _see._ Her eyes were bright with tears that could never fall, her lips trembling with the absolute fury that had welled over in her heart, and as she stared at the brother she was supposed to love she felt nothing but disgust— nothing but absolute, unyielding disdain for the things that he had done.

"You've ruined her," she said, and his frown fell again. "You've _ruined_ her, Edward. You've ruined _us."_

"I only wanted…"

"I don't _care_ what you wanted!" She was shouting again. "Your wants are the very least of my worries… I only care about _her,_ and what we're trying to do to keep her alive!"

He snapped up, shocked.

"Alive?" His voice was weak, trembling. "What do you mean, Alice, _alive?"_

She laughed at him, cruel and unfeeling, and bombarded him again with another piercing memory— Bella's tearful tirade, her hopeless resentment at having been rescued and saved. The vision of death she'd seen in her future, so murky and so faded. The girl weeping in Emmett's arms when Alice had foiled her plans, preventing her from running to her death in the forest.

Edward could only stare, horrified, as she ran the reel over and over again in her mind. She watched the gamut run its course, watched the truth settle on him like an anvil before he turned, too stunned for words.

"I'm sorry…"

"I hope it _kills_ you." She flung the words at him like a weapon, and they dug deep into his heart. "I hope _she_ kills you, for it's the very least that you deserve, Edward. You _disgust _me."

And when he began to tremble, his face like tragedy personified, she could look on him no longer. She turned away, without even a hint of conscience for the damage she had done, and stalked away towards the cold, dark house, leaving him behind to tremble in the trees.

**A/N: Another long one, folks, and I hope you're still enjoying it. This one gave me some trouble (as my Twitter followers will already know), but it finally made it to you, after many revisions and rewritings. Edward is an arrogant, demanding fool, and while Alice and Jasper were very easy to write, he became difficult when he refused to cooperate and follow directions. I had many versions of his return planned in my head, and there are a few elements from each that showed up here, and though I know a lot of you absolutely despise him and everything he stands for, I hope you can find some consolation in Alice's treatment of him. Bella is healing, and she's doing much better, but she wasn't quite ready yet for an all-out brawl with this pigheaded idiot. I figured I'd let Alice in to hand it to him before he gets anywhere _near_ our girl.**

**Thanks for sticking with me. XO**


	14. Talks

**Chapter 13**

Rosalie did not quite know how she had come to be here.

Standing in the kitchen, her nose prickling with the smell of burning eggs, she stared in disbelief at the mess she had made, at the terrible disarray of dishes and food that had taken over the kitchen. The counter was strewn with the evidence of her struggle— bread, crumbled and stale, from a bag that had not been properly sealed, and two broken eggs in the carton that she had grabbed too tightly. The butter was hard, rammed into a mug that was meant for coffee, there were three soiled knives that had fallen to the floor, and right in the middle of it all, trying her best to do something useful, was Rosalie, her fingers slick with grease and her face screwed up in frustration.

When the eggs began to smoke, she cursed, reaching at once to snatch the sizzling pan from the raging flame of the gas range.

"Damn it." The heat of the pan did not burn her, but the oil she'd used to grease it marked the front of her shirt as it splattered, making small pinprick stains in the spots where it had landed. The food inside was nauseating, at once undercooked and too dark, and as she flipped it onto a plate one of the eggs went sliding to the floor with a wet, sticky _splat._

"Damn it, damn it, _damn it!"_

"What are you doing, Rosalie?"

She froze, her fingers hovering over the pitiful meal she'd patched together and she sighed, her gaze roving disgustedly over the mess she'd made. She had never cooked before— not even as a human, when she'd been able to enjoy it— and the slop on the plate seemed to mock her. Her attempt at eggs was dubious at best, at once burned around the edges and runny in the middle, and the toast, like the sampling Alice had made earlier, was nearly black. The butter was too hard and had torn through the bread, and though the bacon seemed tolerable, she doubted whether the potato hash was cooked through. She had not known how to spice it and had settled for table salt, but as she spied the great clumps of it glistening in the steam, she had to wonder if she'd gone too far.

"Honestly? I have _no_ idea."

Jasper only watched her, bemused and rather skeptical, before he tossed her a silver packet from the pantry, which she added to the tray with a grimace.

Rosalie would never understand the girl's craving for Pop Tarts.

Stalking up the stairs, her tray in hand, Rose moved quickly to the second floor landing. The tray in her hands smelled awful, the food scorched and singed, and the toast left more crumbs on the floor with each step she took. There was nothing else for it, she knew— she could have tried again to make something a little more palatable, but that attempt would prove no better, and no matter how she tried to cut it, Rosalie did not have the luxury oftime_._ She knew what Alice had seen in that quick, sudden vision. She knew what was coming, and what had transpired in the interim. She knew that her brother was on his way, and if history was any indicator, he would come quickly, and soon. Edward was heedless and impulsive at the best of times, and downright reckless at the worst, and though she would love nothing more than to see him knocked down in the dirt, she rather suspected that this wounded mortal holed up in her bedroom was not nearly strong enough to do it.

She was surprised, when she reached the landing, to find it silent and deserted. There was no one here to greet her, no one to _stop_ her as she hovered anxiously near the door that would not open of its own accord. Esme had retreated to a place unknown and she could hear Carlisle in his office, shuffling papers at his desk. She did not doubt that he could hear her, too— their hearing was impeccable, after all— but he did not come to stop her, did not offer any sage advice for her to follow. Rosalie expected that Carlisle understood her purpose here. Their kindness was not the key, now— it was not gentle whispers and empty promises that the girl needed, but _honesty,_ as clear and as plain as it could come. Rosalie was not good at hand-holding or speaking sweet words, but she _was_ good at telling the truth, no matter how hard or bitter.

When Rose tried the doorknob she found it locked and she frowned, laying the tray on the floor at her feet. She listened at the door, pressing her cheek to the cold, hard wood, and beyond she heard the distinct sounds of panic, and of scrambling, shuffling feet.

She could hear the sniffling, and she hoped to God the crying had stopped. There was a little gasp of surprise from within when her weight made the door shift, and another again before she heard the telltale squeak of mattress springs. The sounds grew muffled, then, as if the girl had covered herself in her blankets, and when Rosalie reached down to pick the lock, she heard the heartbeat like the canter of a racehorse.

When she entered the room, she moved with purpose, her shoes clicking noisily on the floor as she moved beyond the threshold. The tray in her hands was warm— steam from the plate made condensation on her cold hands— and as she scanned the room, she frowned.

The room was impeccable, as was to be expected in a house managed by Esme, and there was not a hint of disarray but for the lumpy mess on the bed. The room was clear of clutter, the floors polished to the highest shine, and even the windows, which had accumulated a coating of dust in their absence from the house, had been wiped to a gleaming, shimmering sparkle. The room was bright though the sun was obscured, and the tall floor-to-ceiling windows more than made up for the unlit lamps. There were no clothes on the floor— they were all neatly piled in the dresser and on hangers in the closet— and any dirty laundry had been tucked away in the small wicker basket in the corner. There were no books and there was no television— nothing whatsoever by way of amusement— and Rose found it rather stark, and more than a little gloomy.

When she looked at the bed, she felt her frown deepen.

On the mattress, beneath a pile of golden blankets, lay the girl, her face as white as milk and her eyes wide with shock. She had not said a word to protest this strange intrusion and she simply stared at Rosalie as if dumbfounded, as if she could not make sense of her presence here, in this room. Rose had expected this— had forseen her confusion, her bewilderment— but she did not deny that it hurt a little when she saw the glimmer of fear, a wary sort of tension. Rosalie stood equally still so as not to frighten her further, her own awkwardness as brilliant as a moonbeam, and only when she sighed, closing the door and setting the tray on the edge of the bed, did the girl finally make a sound.

"Rosalie?"

"Hello Bella."

They searched each other carefully, one nervous, the other impatient, until Bella finally looked away, resting her cheek on a trembling hand.

To be here, Rosalie knew, was a great imposition, for of all of her family, Rose suspected that she was the least welcome, the least desired. She knew this to be her own fault for she, alone, had refused to let this girl in, to give her the love that came so naturally to the others. It was not as easy for Rosalie to speak from the heart, and that her heart was so raw and sore did not help matters much. Her own bitter temper often brought the wrong words, or gave the wrong impression.

Looking at her now, cowering in the bed, Rosalie could not honestly say that she had grown to _like_ Bella Swan, but the girl had, at the very least, earned her loyalty.

And seeing her like this, Rosalie thought that she was really quite pitiful.

"I've brought you this," she said, and the girl glanced down at the tray without comment. "You don't have to eat it… god knows I wouldn't, if I were you."

This earned her a smile— small, and wry, but a smile nevertheless— and Rosalie filed it away as a small victory. Bella surveyed the steaming slop, her eyes suddenly bright with amused trepidation, before she settled on the silver foil packet, taking it with careful fingers.

"Jasper's addition," said Rose, and the girl looked away. "I guess he doesn't trust me."

"No…" Her voice was rough, but quick to soothe. "No, Rosalie. It looks…"

She trailed off into quiet embarrassment and Rosalie was not so proud to let her temper flare. The girl looked so wary, so _nervous_ as she reached for the fork that Rosalie laughed, openly and with great amusement.

"Don't flatter me, Bella," she said, and the girl avoided a response by snapping off the corner of her cold pastry. "I know it's disgusting, but I suppose it's the thought that counts."

She grinned again, taking another bite.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Together they sat in silence for a few minutes longer while Bella ate her pastry and Rosalie watched, fascinated. She did not know what it was to eat, what it was to taste food and _enjoy_ it, and while the smell of it was not offensive to her, it did not call out as something edible. Rosalie missed that, the satisfaction of a craving, and when the first tart had been consumed, the foil packet was abandoned.

Carefully, as if she did not want Rose to notice, Bella began to lift herself from her pillows, sitting herself upright in the bed. Rose could see the marks of the day on her— her cheeks, flushed vivid pink, were stained with tears, and her eyes were rimmed red from crying— but there were other scars, too, fainter and more subdued.

Rosalie was not learned in the ways of mortals, as she had never made the effort to see, had never taken an interest. Humans were a mystery to her— one that she at once longed to solve and simultaneously avoided like a bad smell. She could not recall most of her own human emotions— only those that had come at the very end— and she wondered, now, just how strongly they _felt._

The girl before her was the greatest mystery of all, and as Rosalie watched her fidget, she did not know what to say. Bella's heart thrummed anxiously in her chest— a mark of _her_ discomfort, too— and though she was not crying, her cheeks were flushed red with emotion, her eyes swimming with something that Rosalie could not read. She did not have her brother's gift— did not have his knack for knowing just where the hurt might be— and so she settled for watching, trying to discern that which she should already know.

Bella did not like being watched and as she took in Rose's stare, she grew first awkward, and then uncomfortable. She did not voice it— even now, she was too meek, too mild— but Rosalie did her the favour of averting her gaze when she reached for a piece of the burned toast. The butter had not melted— Rosalie could not explain why— and when Bella nibbled at a corner of it, she could not hide her sudden grimace.

Rosalie lifted herself from the bed, turning her face to the window.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," she said, and the girl only stared, the toast held limply in her fingers. "I suppose you're wondering why _me."_

"I just assumed that Emmett…"

Rosalie grinned, shaking her head.

"Emmett's still out on patrol," she said. "He has no idea I'm here with you."

At the word _patrol _Rosalie saw her body stiffen, her throat bobbing as she swallowed back her worry.

"You know what he's patrolling for?"

"Yes."

"And what do you think of that?"

The girl blinked at her, frowning.

"I… don't know."

"Yes you do." Rose was sharp. "You know _exactly_ what you think."

Bella stared at her, eyes narrowed.

"I think it's_ stupid,"_ she said finally, and Rosalie thought she saw a fissure in that armor, so weak, yet so determined. "I think the whole thing is ridiculous."

"Why?"

She scoffed, running a tissue over her nose.

"Because all she wants is_ me."_

"Do you know _why?"_

"Because of what happened. Last year."

"Exactly." Rosalie recalled it clearly, that vivid game of cat and mouse. The tracker on the loose, hunting like a mad thing. The furious flight of the girl in the night. Her lies. Her _deception._

And the look on Edward's face when he'd found out what she'd done— how she'd _escaped— _before he'd flown on wings of steel to bring her back again.

"Exactly, Bella."

The girl did not understand, and it showed quite plainly on her face.

"You know what Alice saw?" she asked, and this time, Bella flinched away. "I know she told you… that's why you're up here, isn't it?"

"I…"

"He's not coming back for _us,_ Bella," said Rose, and then the girl _did_ turn away, curling her knees up to her chest. "He's coming back for _you,_ not us."

"He shouldn't."

"Oh yes he should."

She peeked, now, through the gap in her arms, and Rose saw the confusion there, the wonder.

"He _absolutely_ should, Bella, because he shouldn't have left you in the first place. Even I can see that, now."

"He doesn't want me, Rosalie."

Oh, if only that were true.

"There have been things set in motion, Bella, that not even _I_ can fully understand," she said, and the girl did not move, did not answer. "Things that even _Carlisle_ can't comprehend, for all he's tried to study it."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your bond," said Rose, and the girl flinched away. "Your bond with _him."_

"Not anymore…"

"I think there _is."_

"There isn't," she said darkly. "At least… not for _him."_

"Did he ever explain it to you?" asked Rose. "What it's like, for us? Has _anyone_ ever told you?"

"He didn't have to."

"He should have."

"Well he _didn't." _The words were harder now, and petulant. "He didn't, Rosalie, and neither should you. I don't_ want_ to know…"

"No, but I think you already _do."_

She swallowed thickly.

"I just… I wanted things to be _different, _you know?"

"Different how?"

"Like they were… _before."_

_Before…_

"Before all of _this." _She pointed at herself, at the bed beneath her. "Before everything was so _wrong."_

"But we can't go back, can we?" Rose replied, and even to her, the question sounded bitter, rhetorical. "We can't go _back,_ Bella, any more than we can go _forward."_

"I move forward every day."

"Yes, you do."

Bella's head snapped around, her face stormy and displeased.

"Is _that_ what you want?" she asked, and at once, Rose saw her realization. "Is that _really_ what you long for? To move _forward?"_

"It's the only thing I've _ever_ wanted, Bella. It's all any of us really want."

The girl chewed on this for a moment.

"You don't know what it is to be frozen," said Rose. "To be stuck the way you are, forever held back. I know you've suffered— God knows, you've suffered— but you _will_ recover, Bella, whether you believe it or not."

"My dad…"

"I know." Rose's words were soft, almost apologetic, as she saw the tears well up. "I _know._ It was a terrible tragedy— and worse, an _avoidable_ one— and even _I_ will tell you that I'm sorry because we should have done _more."_

"_You_ didn't kill him."

"We may as well have." The words were sticky, somehow, thick and hot, but she got them out anyways, letting them hover in the air between them. "We may not have put our hands on him, but it was our negligence that caused it."

"You didn't…"

"We knew the risks," said Rose, and this time Bella _did_ let her tears fall. "We knew how _volatile_ our kind could be, and yet we left anyways. Edward thought you would be safe. He never _dreamed—"_

"Don't. Don't make excuses for him, please."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be that, either." She was angry now, and more than a little riled, and Rose reached out a hand to soothe her, but she was refused. Bella ducked away from her, shimmying awkwardly away before her hand could touch, and Rose felt the sting of rejection, of her refusal.

_Not that she blamed her..._

"Don't, Rosalie. Don't pretend. You don't even _like _me."

Rosalie frowned.

"I'm sorry about that," she said, and the frankness of it seemed to hurt her. "I'm sorry it's been that way… I won't deny it."

"Right…"

"Does that bother you? Me not liking you?"

There was embarrassment, then, and a little pinch of discomfort, and when she did not answer, Rose chuckled again. This piqued her, brought her little, kitten temper to the forefront, and Rose saw, for the first time, a spark of something that was _not_ sadness, but irritation.

"_No."_

"You're a terrible liar," accused Rose, and the girl only huffed, turning away again.

"Why are you here?" she demanded, and at once, Rose fell short. "Why did you come here, really? I know it wasn't to deliver my breakfast on a tray."

"I'm sorry if I've upset you. It was never my intention…"

"What _was_ your intention, then?" she demanded, her temper fizzling when Rose did not rise to it. "I don't understand you, Rosalie."

"No," Rose laughed. "I hardly understand myself, most days…"

"Why are you _here?"_

"I want to talk to you," she said. "And given the events of the day, I'm running rather short on time."

"Time?"

Rosalie did not answer.

"It's not your fault, you know."

"What isn't?"

"Me not liking you."

This time, her hurt showed plainly.

"Then _why?"_ she asked, and Rose heard the desperation, the curiosity burning in her question. "I've never done _anything_ to you. So why do you hate me so much?"

"_Hate_ you?" Rose shook her head, lowering herself to the bed. "No. I've never _hated_ you."

"_What,_ then?" Bella demanded, and Rose felt a hot flush of shame. "What's the problem with me? I tried so hard to win you, Rosalie, and I failed at every turn…"

Rose ducked her chin, her lips pursed as her tongue struggled with the words.

"It's not _hatred,"_ she said, and Bella simply stared. "I mean it. I don't _hate_ you, and I never have. I never got to know you well enough for my feelings to morph into something so strong…"

The silence drew on.

"I was _jealous, _Bella," she said finally, and the girl stared at her with perplexity. "I _am_ jealous… as awful as that is, and as nonsensical as it might seem to _you. _I'm _envious._

The bark laughter that came was sudden, and so sharp that it made Rosalie start. She eyed the girl with some concern, watching as tears welled up in those big, brown eyes, and when she laughed again, without a hint of humour, and let one roll down her cheek, she wiped it with her sleeve and turned away. When Rosalie caught her eye she seemed more bewildered than ever before and she stared in wonder before Rosalie, rather put off, schooled her features into something akin to disapproval.

"You're jealous of _me?"_ The words were giddy, almost foolish. "Jesus _Christ_, Rosalie. What in the hell for? What could I _possibly_ have that you want?"

Rose felt the scowl on her face before she could control it, but it did nothing to ease the incredulity on that tired, pale face.

"A great many things." She stood now, pacing the floor. "You have _no_ idea, Bella, what it's like for us. What it's like to see what _might_ have been…"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about_ you!"_ The girl jumped and her laughter fell away. "I'm talking about all of the things you have that we never can. All of the wonder, the _possibility…"_

"The possibility of what?"

"Of _life, _Bella." Rose's voice went soft, and wistful. "Of _real _life. You've got the world at your fingertips, and yet you're so eager to throw it away."

The girl blushed, but did not refute her.

"There are things out there, in the world, that you've only ever _dreamed_ of," said Rose. "Things that you can _have_, if that's what you want."

"I don't."

"You don't know _what_ you want, because you're still so_ young._ So young_, _Bella, and so _hurt."_

The girl said nothing.

"You've got your whole life ahead of you…" Rose snorted at her own sentimentality. "You've got everything waiting for you, but you have to be willing to _take_ it."

"I don't_ want_ it."

Rosalie sighed.

"Not right _now,_ but…"

"Not _ever."_

Rosalie opened her mouth again, but before she could speak, the girl interrupted.

"I don't want it, Rose, because I don't want anything without _him."_ The admission seemed to hurt her, to sting. "I don't want any of it, because it means _nothing _to me, if he's not there."

And Rosalie did not refute her— did not feed her asinine lies about love and duty— for she knew, in her deepest heart, that the girl spoke the truth.

Without Emmett, Rosalie would be nothing. She was all of herself when he was with her and should he be taken from her, as Edward had taken himself from _his_ mate, Rosalie knew that she, too, would have no hope. They would live forever, each entwined in the other's love, and should the worst happen, Rosalie knew that she would burn with him. Together they formed a whole— one soul, one _purpose—_ and without that other half, there could be nothing left of _her._

But still, she spoke.

"You don't know what you're going to miss, Bella," she said, and she peeled herself away to kneel at the bedside. The girl had covered her face with her hands, burying herself away so that her distress would not show, but Rosalie was quick, and careful. When her hands gripped those wrists, so thin that she could easily wrap her fingers all the way around, Rosalie was keenly aware of the heady pulse, the thrum of blood beneath her fingers. It was the first time Rosalie had ever touched her— the first time since her earliest years since she had placed her hands on _any _human— and the feel of it shocked her, so warm and so soft. Rosalie had always made a point of keeping her distance— of putting as much space between her and them as she possibly could— but there was nothing for it now, as she held those slender wrists in each of her hands. Her grip was unmovable, though Bella did not try to flee, and as Rosalie felt the swell of veins and capillaries with each breath and heartbeat, it saddened her to know that it might all be snuffed out.

"You don't know what you're _giving up."_

"I _do _know, Rosalie…" Her eyes were streaming now, and desperate. "I_ do_ know what I'm giving up, and that's the problem. What I'm giving up is the whole _point."_

And in that moment Rose felt it, like a quick, sharp crack in smooth glass.

The eyes that watched her were young— so infuriatingly, terribly young— and filled with all the naivety that her tender years demanded. There was no guile on Bella's face— no learned deception, or careful, calculated misguidance— and the sudden, overwhelming pity hit her with such force that it almost hurt. Rosalie had thought of Bella as an equal, as a _rival_ in the realms of love and affection, but the truth of it was much gentler, and so much harder for Rose to take. By the law, she was a woman— grown up and ready to make her way in the world, as all adults should— but in reality, she was far, far less, and yet so wholly, obtrusively _more. _Rosalie had longed for a child all her life— had wanted to feel the swell of it beneath her skin, the little feet kicking from the inside— and she had wanted to _love_ it, to watch it grow. It had been, and always would be, the utmost desire of her heart, and as she watched this pitiful face— this downcast, sorrowful thing— she finally understood where the tragedy came in. In that moment of quiet, Rosalie thought that she could see the child that the girl must have been, the child she _had_ been just a year or so earlier, when she was still full of life and joy. Rosalie, herself, had witnessed the very end of that childhood when Edward had brought her home, though at the time she hadn't noticed hadn't seen this newcomer for the child that she was, did not give even the most basic care for her youth and inexperience, but instead, had thrust upon her all of the regrets from her own sorry youth, from her own failed attempts to return to the life she'd left behind.

Eighteen years was hardly a drop in the bucket compared to her own decades of experience, and this creature before her had as much of the child in her as she did the woman.

"You're giving up more than you think," Rose whispered, and the girl only scoffed, pulling herself away. "More than you could ever _dream, _Bella…"

"I'm _useless…"_

"You are _not_."

"I _am_," she argued. "It's all I've ever been. Stupid, and weak, and a _liability_…"

"You have _life_, Bella, and that's never without hope."

"I couldn't even _die_ properly…"

"And that is a_ blessing."_

"I've got _nothing." _Her voice was hard now, and pinched. "There's nothing left for me here. Not with all that's happened."

Rosalie sat back on her heels, surveying the girl with a critical eye. She was not used to this pity— to the queer ache that had taken up residence in her heart for this creature she had so heartily disliked just an hour ago— and it threw her off-kilter, made her wary. That pale face was resolute, so certain in her proclamation that it took Rosalie a moment to gather herself, and when she did, she spoke as kindly as she could.

"And what would you call us, then?" she asked, and the girl froze in place. "If you've got _nothing,_ what do you call _us?"_

"You left," she said, and there was sorrow this time, and confusion. "You _all _left…"

"Yes."

"_Why?"_

Rosalie blew out a breath.

"Because he asked us to," she said simply. "Because he asked, Bella, and we obliged."

"Alice didn't even say goodbye."

This childish regret, so poignant, made Rosalie pause as she surveyed her. Bella tried to hide it, though she was not a good liar, and there was hurt there, and resentment. It stuck in her like a fine, sharp needle, just thick enough to sting, and Rosalie saw how she had nursed that wound until it festered, leaving an ugly, sour mark.

"None of us did," she pointed out. "He thought it would be easier that way. To give you a clean break."

"It didn't work."

"Evidently not."

"And he's coming back."

"Yes…"

"Why, Rosalie?" Her gaze was suddenly fierce, fiery with passion and grief. _"Why_ is he coming back?"

And Rosalie froze, her words raining down like fire.

"He's coming back because he _loves_ you, Bella. Because he wants you _safe."_

"He _doesn't."_

"Yes, he does."

Rosalie did not approve of it— had never approved of Edward's corruption of her innocence, his brazen disregard for their one and only rule of secrecy— but not even _she_ could deny the truth of it.

"No…"

"Yes." Her word was hard, and final. "Yes, Bella, he does. No matter what he's said to you, or what he's _done…"_

"He _left."_

"I never said he was smart."

She didn't even crack a smile.

"He's coming back to _die_ for me," she said, and Rose saw her fear, then, her _terror._ "He's coming back to risk his life… and for what? For _me?"_

"Yes," said Rose, because this was the hard, ugly truth of it. They had _all_ come back for this— Carlisle and Esme to protect their family, with Emmett, Alice and Jasper in tow. Rose would not let Emmett fight alone— not unless she, too, could be there to defend him— and Edward…

"He's coming back for _you,_ Bella," said Rose. "I don't think he gives a damn about any of _us_ right now. His one and only worry is, and always has been, _you."_

She began to cry in earnest, and Rose was as bewildered as she was frustrated.

"Is that not what you want?" asked Rose, and the girl began to tremble, to shake. "Is that not what you've wanted all along?"

"I don't _know," _she said, and Rose handed her a tissue. "I don't know what I want, Rosalie, because I don't know _who he is."_

"He's your mate, Bella… no matter how much we all skirt around it. He's your _mate."_

"I don't have a mate."

"Yes, you _do…"_

"But he chose to leave."

"I can't make excuses for him, as you so plainly told me," said Rose, though her words seemed to have no effect. "I can't tell you why he does the things he does… I don't think _he_ even understands it, really. All I know is that he wants you _safe,_ and that he'd do anything— _be_ anything— to make sure that happens."

"It didn't work…"

"No," said Rose. "No, it didn't. And do you know why?"

"No."

"Because he didn't factor in the most important thing," she said, and when she stroked her hand down Bella's back, she felt her shiver. "He didn't factor in _you,_ and that has been his greatest oversight. He never thought you'd disobey him— never thought you'd break your promises— and so he never realized that the greatest threat to your safety was_ yourself_, the one thing he couldn't take away from you."

"I don't matter, Rosalie…"

"Have you heard_ nothing _I've said?"

The girl turned away, pressing her face into the pillow.

"He wants you, Bella, of that, I'm sure."

She said nothing.

"And whether you like it or not, my brother is coming back," she said, and the answering sigh was heavy, and full. "Whether _he_ likes it or not, he's coming back. He won't refuse Carlisle's call— not when we need him— and when he gets here, I know he's going to want to see you."

At once, she shook her head.

"I would be the last person on the face of the earth to tell you what you _must_ do, Bella," she said, and the girl listened, perturbed. "I would be the last person in the world to tell you to give him the time of day. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't _deserve _it. Not after what he's done. But I _do_ know that that's _exactly_ what he'll want— what I'm sure he _already _wants."

"I don't want to see him…"

"You wanted to _be_ him, once. You wanted to be like _us."_

Her stare was hard, and plaintive.

"Not anymore. _God, _Rosalie… not anymore." she whispered and Rose stood, her eyes downcast.

She could not deny the joy of those words— the utter gladness that _this_ girl, at least, had gained some sense— but there was a sadness in it too, a regret. Rosalie knew the ramifications of her choice either way— she knew the sacrifice of the Change and the inevitable decay of fleeting human life. No matter what, there was a cost: should she live, as she was now, her death was unavoidable— it would be her inevitable, foreseeable end, as it was for all of her kind. She would age and she would wither, and when her life was over she would slip away. The beauty Rosalie had envied would fade— her complexion of cream and roses would dull to wasted grey, her smooth, satin-soft skin loosening with wrinkles. The nutty red-brown of her hair would lighten to silver, and she would lose her senses— sight and sound. She would grow old and her trials would leave their marks on her like a roadmap, and Rosalie would follow each one, watching where they might lead. The end would come for her, too soon and yet so far off, and at the very last her family would be waiting— her father, her mother, and everyone else that had gone before her.

But before that end, there would be love— not like the love of her mate, but perhaps something to satisfy, to soothe— and there would be children, and maybe grandchildren. Rosalie had no doubt that she would be a mother— she had the kindness for it, and the patience— and though her envy was strong, Rosalie did not begrudge her. She could live the life that Rosalie only dreamed of— a life with porch swings, and babies, and sweet, summer nights… a life of warmth, and a life of _joy._

She had wanted to be like them— to undergo that terrible, halting change that would leave her eighteen forever— and the thought of it made Rosalie sick, and sad. _They_ were not the natural way of things— their life was not to be envied, for all its longevity. Bella had asked for this, had _demanded_ it so impertinently from her brother before their great undoing, and Rosalie knew how close he'd been to giving in, to _obliging. _Bella had wanted it, had been willing to _embrace_ it, but now…

_Not anymore._

"That is your right," said Rose, and she spoke with such ferocity that the girl looked up, surprised. "That is your right, Bella, to _choose._ We will not take that choice from you… it is yours, and yours alone."

Outside the door, she heard the quiet sigh of her father as he listened to her words.

"Too many choices have been made for you already," said Rose, and when her father cracked the door open, neither of them took notice. "Too many decisions made, for you and _without_ you… but not anymore."

Carlisle's face was pinched, his eyes swimming with terrible, awful regret.

"Rose…"

She looked up at him, frowning.

"It's alright."

"No, it's not." He was beside her then, his eyes flickering between his eldest daughter and his youngest. "It's not, Rose, and I'm_ sorry."_

When he hugged her, she did not resist him, letting him bring his arms around her to hold her to him, as he so rarely did. Her father seldom hugged her— she was not as receptive to it as Alice, or Esme— but when he did, Rosalie knew that she was loved. For all his mistakes, each action he'd taken to save her, to _preserve _her, had come from the heart and she could not fault him for that, no matter how angry she was.

"You've been forgiven ten times over," she said, and it was the truth, no matter how it hurt. "You did what you thought was right. You acted out of _love."_

He laughed, strained and sorry, before he sat on the edge of the bed, his hand on Bella's face.

"Love," said Carlisle, and the word hung in the air like a ghost. "Sometimes, I wonder if it's all really worth it."

And when he kissed the girl, so soft and so gentle on the apple of her cheek, Rosalie knew that despite his pessimism, he was just as much a slave to it as the rest of them.

**A/N: Thanks for your love and support. This one, like a few before it, gave me quite a bit of trouble and I didn't get nearly as far as I would have liked. We're heading into crunch time soon, with only 20-ish chapters planned, and while I wanted to reintroduce Edward and Bella in this one, it didn't quite happen. Next chapter we'll deal more with Ed, and hopefully we'll get to see what Bella does with him when they come face to face.**

**Also, I hope that this helps to redeem Rosalie, even just a little. She's still a little prickly, but not so heartless as she might have seemed before.**

**XO**


	15. Vision

**WARNING: This chapter might be triggering to anyone who is sensitive to suicide or suicidal thoughts. Please proceed with caution.**

**Chapter 14**

From her nest in the bed, surrounded by her pillows and her blankets, Bella sat unmoving, her face a mask of steel.

She could hear the commotion in the yard playing like music, loud and trembling, with a gut-roiling bass that made her shiver, though she was not cold. The noise of it, the clamour, made her stomach flutter with nerves, sound jumping from wall to wall like a skipping needle on an old record. She could not make out the words— unlike _them_, she did not have such impeccable hearing and finely-tuned senses— but she could hear some of it, and that was more than enough.

Alice's voice, so high and so furious, reigned over the others, and when Bella dared to peek out of the window, it was clear to her what had happened and it made her heart sink to her feet.

They were there, all six of them standing in a loose semicircle around a seventh— the newcomer. She could see Carlisle's hands moving, palms outstretched for a peace that would not come, and Emmett, his height making him stand out from all the others. Alice was shouting— she was close, so _terribly_ close to that newcomer that it made Bella freeze with worry— and her voice carried, as if brought in by little birds to float through the closed window. The noise was atrocious— so sharp and so cruel— and as she rose from her blankets to watch, to _listen,_ it was on legs that trembled like jelly.

"You will not!" cried the angry voice, and Bella made sure to hide herself, to crouch. It hurt when she felt the pull, her tender ribs still sore and swollen, but she held her breath to stave off the worst of it, keeping her ear tuned on the yard outside.

There was a murmur, and then another shout.

"I will_ not!"_ When she moved, it was with a speed that Bella could not follow, a terrible rush that she could not see. "I will_ not, _Carlisle, and neither will_ he!"_

At that word— that last, lonely word— Bella had heard enough and she slipped down to the floor, breathless.

In her heart she felt the sting— the aching, gnawing _gap _that had been her constant companion, her _only_ companion, for months. It had come to her in those dark, cold hours she'd spent on the forest floor before she'd passed out on the ground, and had lingered like a ghost in the shadows ever since. She had banished it— had screamed herself hoarse to get it away and had clawed at it until her fingers bled— and at the very end, it _had_ gone. On the cliff, with the wind in her hair, there had been no words but hers, no sadness but that from the weight of her own choices and failures. She had shouted her love from the clifftop, knowing that it would carry forever on the wind, and then she had leapt and when she'd been consumed by that icy water she had felt finally, gratefully _free._

That ghost had been banished from her, sent back to the hell from whence it came, and Bella had hoped, had _prayed,_ that it would stay away.

But even now,she had failed.

In the sweet, warm room with its bed of plushest gold Bella sat huddled on the floor, that great wound in her chest aching and smarting with every breath. It was not the broken bones— not the purple bruises on her chest, or the deep ache of strained and beaten muscles— but that _other _hurt, the bite from that beast that had festered. That bite which she knew, as she curled in on herself to ease the edges, would be the wound that killed her.

_Killed her…_ that was a soothing thought, but before it could sink its teeth in she made sure to think of other things. The last time she had thought like this, the last time her plans had become too solid, she'd infuriated Alice and petrified Esme, though the latter was too kind to ever accuse her of any wrongdoing. She had seen Esme's grief in every line and angle, painted like watercolours on her smooth, perfect face, and it had hurt Bella, though there was no hope for it. She could not help the hurt she caused any more than she could avoid the ever-present ache, and though she _longed_ for it to quit, for that pain to finally cease, she didn't know how to make it stop. She didn't know how to soothe it, how to ease herself away from the precipice she'd found, because she was soft, and she was feeble, and she was _sad._

She hated that sadness more than anything else in the world. That sadness ate at her, left her friendless and alone even _here_, where she was surrounded by such inexplicable love, and no matter how she fought it or cursed it, it would not leave her. It was more than a blue mood, more than even a_ black_ mood, and it made her weak as she tried to carry it. She could not hold it— she could not even hold _herself—_ and though she tried with aching, strained muscles, she knew that she would _never_ be strong enough, never brave enough. It crushed her like an ant, left her flailing by herself in the dark, and all because she could not be courageous or determined. Though she felt that weight like an anvil, so impertinent and so heavy, there was nothing in the world that she could do to ease it because she was not _enough._ She would _never _be enough… would never be _good_ enough, no matter how much she wished she could be.

All things considered, she did not quite know how she had come to be here, or more importantly_, why. _Further still, she did not know why there had been such gentleness, such _care_ taken to make her well, and safe.

These people were not her family— not her _true_ family, which had been lost forever from the world she knew. Their kind mother, one whom she loved dearly, was not _her_ mother, no matter how much Bella wished she could be. This father was not _her_ father— was not the one she craved or the one for whom she cried in the night, and there was no amount of wishing, no amount of _longing,_ that could ever bring him back.

The thought of Charlie hurt like a fresh, seeping wound, and the sting of it brought tears to her eyes, though she wiped them angrily on her sleeve. She was sick to death of crying— so sick that she thought that one more tear might drain her dry— and so she squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to _see. _But behind her eyelids, in the cool, soft darkness, the sight of him was _all_ that she could see and she blotted it out with her fists, scattering that bloody, reckless violence into spasms of blue and violet light.

She did not understand this, either— the sight she had seen so very near the end. She could not make sense of it even now— could not bring herself to really _think_ on it, or examine it. She knew the logistics of it, of course… _that _would never leave her, as long as she lived. She remembered the blood and the odd smears it had made across the old checkerboard linoleum of the kitchen floor. Its vivid scarlet on the white, its darkness on the dull, brooding black. The shiny pink muscle of his arm, still held out in desperate defense against his assailant, and the way his head had looked, resting at such an odd, unnatural angle…

She had looked upon that violence with eyes that saw clearly, but with a mind that did not quite _process. _It had been the smell of it— the death, the _blood—_ that had sent her to pieces, and when she'd started to scream, she'd wondered if she'd ever be able to stop again.

She did not know how it had all come to a close. She did not remember what had come _after…_ only the briefest flicker of a church, the warm, sweaty arms of Billy Black around her shoulders, a kiss from his son Jacob, searing hot on the apple of her cheek. She had no idea how the ambulance had gotten to her— had she screamed loudly enough to alert the neighbours, or had she managed to find the phone herself? — and she did not know who she had spoken to at the hospital, or the police station… all she had known, from the minute it had happened, was that ragged, loose thread that had been wrenched from her heart, still pulsing with life that would never return and with an unfathomable _love_ that would never be answered.

Her father was dead, and she couldn't understand _why._

Thinking of him now, Bella shook her head, pressing her eyes to her knees to blot him out again. There was nothing else for it— it would not bring him back, and it did her no good to dwell on it— and she took as deep a breath as she could manage before her panic got out of hand. Before the crushing sorrow returned. Before she felt_ it_ again— that terrible, uncontrollable urge, so deep in her heart and soul, to tear herself away from the world and find that peace which had been so near to her in that water and which had been dragged so terribly, horribly far in the interim.

She could pinpoint it— the exact moment she had discovered that she wanted to die.

La Push— there had been a bonfire there, once, when she was very little, and she could remember the stories told around the fire. She recalled the Quileute legends, so vividly brought to life by a man so old that Bella could hardly see his face for all the wrinkles. That man had smiled at her, inviting her to sit at his knee with all of the other children though her skin had been the wrong colour, so pale and so white. The night had been cold, she remembered, and peppered with cloudy starlight. She remembered Charlie's wrinkled grin as he roasted fish over the flames with Billy… the warmth of the fire, soothing the chill of the night at her back. The roaring sea, close enough to taste, and the way the water had licked her ankles, nipping them with bitter warning.

She had chosen the spot with purpose— the very same place where she and her father had launched countless boats into the churning, rocky waves in the warmest days of summer. They had docked on the islands, had clambered perilously over rocks and hills in search of fish that wouldn't bite, and Bella had found wonder there, and peace. She had loved the sound of that water, so dangerous and so hard, and she had loved the feel of the ground beneath her feet each time she had stepped off the boat. There had been a call in her soul when she set foot on those rocky shores where there were no houses, no people. They had been alone on those islands— together in strange and gentle solitude— and she had _known_ him there, had _felt _him. Bella had missed her father growing up— _dad_ was a word she had often heard, but seldom had the chance to use— and when it had been just the two of them, alone on those islands, she had found that word again and it had been filled with love. In those places it had been _her_ word, and hers alone, and she had delighted in the speaking of it— dad, dad, _dad._

_I love you._ She'd cried those words before she jumped. She did not know for whom she had meant them, which ears she'd hoped they'd reach, but as she'd taken the plunge, so fast and so final, it had been Charlie she'd felt beside her, his hands she'd reached for when she finally hit the churning, icy water.

That water had taken her quickly. It had taken her _harshly._ She recalled the plunge, and she recalled that first and final breath— searing salt in a body that clamoured for the open air of the sky. She recalled the voice she'd heard in those last few moments before her eyes had closed and she had drifted, uncaring, on those steely, grey waves.

_I love you too._

She did not remember anything that had come after, though she'd heard the story over again a hundred times. She did not recall how Jasper had pulled her, had no recollection of his hands making those terrible bruises on her chest. She could not recall the feel of his icy lips blowing life back into her, or the water Alice had described that had poured from her like a fountain. She did not remember breathing, did not remember_ waking,_ and she did not remember the kind words he had spoken in those few, stolen moments, though he'd said them over again at least a hundred times since.

She had awoken, confused and bewildered, in a house that she knew well, with people she thought lost, in a world she'd thought was _dead._

She could not understand it, really… not when she stopped to think, to _consider. _

That seventh figure out on the lawn, so berated by his sister, had been the catalyst for the whole, terrible ordeal. She had loved him, once— had imagined herself with him forever, unchangeable and sure— and the thought of it now made her achy and furious. She was angry for the hurt he'd caused, for the damage he'd done, though he should have known better. She was angry with_ him_ for the devastation he'd wrought. She wanted to pummel him, and shun him, and take him with her over that steep, rocky cliff… but most of all she wanted to end _herself_ for the pang she felt, for the _longing_ in her heart at the very idea of him and the love that he'd so cruelly given. The love that she had clung to, so lonely and so naive, and the love that he'd denied her, had thrown back in her face like an insult.

Her weakness had never been more apparent, more _critical, _than it was when she had fallen for him. That weakness gave him such hold over her, bent her to his will at the slightest touch. That weakness had been her undoing, had brought her to her knees, for it had not been weapons or violence that had brought her so low, but _words— _only a few hard and careless _words._

Five words had ruined her— five, short words, so cruelly spoken in the blue twilight, and so calculated and cutting that she _knew_ they'd been meant to strike hard, to _wound._ They'd been the words she'd been expecting ever since he'd confessed to her his love, and the words she'd feared above all others— the words of truth he'd held in his heart and the words she'd held in hers from the moment she'd felt the pull of his love.

_I don't want you, Bella. _

But oh, how she had wanted him…

She had wanted him more than anything else in the world.

She would have done anything,_ been_ anything he'd wanted her to be because she was so hungry, so _desperate_ for his love and his affection. She'd clung to every kiss, had pounced on every touch. Each whisper, each caress, had been like gold to her, tucked away in her pauper's purse where she kept all her precious things, and it had grown heavy and full. The way he looked at her, like she'd hung the moon, and the way he'd touched her, so soft and so sweet— all so treasured, so _valued,_ and yet so feeble, like fading photographs in an old, worn album.

She could not recall the feeling of that love— the warmth of it, or the sweetness— because it was shadowed by those words of disdain. The light in the world had gone with him, snatched from the fleeing blue of the sky and leaving in its place that impenetrable blackness, the terrible, awful cold.

She had felt it then, on that first night— the niggling voice in the back of her head, the sweet and sensible _suggestion_ that she might not _have_ to endure it, that there was another way. There had been no plans, then— no visions of cliffs and trees— but there had been a _thought,_ though fleeting, and brief.

No. She had not really wanted to die just then, when he had fled into the darkness of the night. She had not wanted to die when she'd found her father dead, or when she'd screamed herself so hoarse that her voice had been lost for more than a week. She did not want to die when they'd lowered him into the ground, or when all of her emails to Alice had come back unsent, but only when she'd made that phone call, the third in a long line that had gone unanswered.

"_Please, mom… please,"_ she'd begged, her heart in tatters. _"Please, mama, please, please, please."_

Renee had never answered.

Bella could not explain her mother's absence any more than she could Charlie's, and though there was no blood to tell of violence, no corpse to tell of _death,_ Bella knew that _that_ was the only thing that would have kept her mother from her, that would have made Renee so silent in her child's time of need. Her mother would not have ignored her when Bella called her weeping. She would not have abandoned her when the police had called to tell her what had happened. She would not have left her child alone, so frightened and so cold in a place that she, herself, despised, and she would not have kept her silence. Not Renee, who was so loud that her voice could fill a stadium. Not Renee, who had let her daughter go when the time had come, but who had pined for her, that one constant in her sea of change and movement.

Bella and Renee went together like yin and yang, each so essential that it was hard to figure out who they were without the other. Bella was the shore and Renee was the sea. She was the earth and her mother was the moon, spinning so high above the world in a sky all its own. They moved together, _breathed_ together, and though Bella had cried for her, _screamed_ for her, she had not come. There could only be one reason why Renee had not answered this final, desperate call, or why she had left her daughter so alone in the great, wide world. Only one reason for this awful silence, and that reason was because Renee _couldn't_ answer.

Renee couldn't hear her, no matter how loudly Bella shouted. She couldn't come, no matter how desperately she reached. She couldn't hold her, or kiss her, or whisper sweet comforts, because like Charlie, Renee was gone, and there wasn't a soul left in the world that Bella dared to love.

Love had gotten her into this mess, she knew— love for her family, and love for _him—_ and she was still so full of it that it leaked out of her like water. Her heart broke into pieces when those bonds were snapped and when she'd been alone in that house of horrors with the blood still staining the floor, she'd known that there was no other recourse, no other way. Her decision had come swiftly and with such urgency that she hardly realized where she was going until she got there, and then she had jumped, so high and so far, to find her way back to the family who loved her.

In the complete and utter silence of the bedroom, flowing over her like waves, there was a crash and she started, cracking her head against the wall. The pain bloomed strong, making her eyes stream as she hissed, and in an instant the door was open, a face swimming in front of her own.

"Are you alright, darling?" said Carlisle, and she felt his touch, his cold fingers on her cheeks. She nodded, clenching her eyes shut to stave off the sting and he reached back to feel the bump, tutting.

"Did we frighten you, with the noise?" Bella said nothing. "I _am_ sorry… it's been a little heated."

"I heard."

He stared at her, his face unreadable.

There was something about Carlisle, about the way he looked at her, that made Bella feel at once ashamed and terribly, gratefully _cared_ for. He was never unkind, never anything less than perfectly polite and courteous, and though she could not quite believe that he felt the same way about her, she _longed_ for him, and the comfort he gave. He had always been intimidating to her— Edward's handsome and wealthy father, a doctor with centuries of experience and a seemingly endless supply of compassion. She knew she must seem young to him, so terribly, awfully young, and perhaps now a fool, given what she had done. Bella felt guilt when Carlisle was with her— guilt for her own weakness, and guilt for the work she'd made for him when she'd thrown herself from the cliff— but he never berated her for it, never _scolded._

His kindness was unfailing, his gentleness unparallelled, and she heard the words he'd spoken to her so many times that she'd lost count. So many times, and yet she still did not quite believe him, did not _understand_ the why or the how of those startling declarations that made her stomach writhe with nerves and her heart throb in her chest.

"_You are loved,"_ he had told her, _"you are cherished. You are good, and you are kind, and you are wanted, Bella."_ None if made any sense. _"We love you, and we are going to fight for you. We are going to die for you, if needs be…"_

Shame roiled in her belly like an eel, bringing tears back to the forefront and he sighed, his mouth drawn in an unhappy frown. Edward had always told Bella that she was difficult to read, but Carlisle seemed to have no problem with it and he read that shame like a book, smoothing his finger over the crease between her brow to ease the tension.

"I wish you wouldn't," he said, and when his arms wrapped around her she leaned in, feeling his tense surprise at her willingness, her _acceptance._ She was so rarely receptive to his affection, so rarely open to the comfort he could give, and she knew that this hurt him, that her rejection stung worse than her words ever could. This time, though that unhappy feeling still rumbled in her insides, she did not push him away, resting her cheek on his shoulder and feeling the strong span of his hands on her warm, trembling back.

They did not need to speak, silent as they were, and Bella wound her arms about his waist to let herself settle against his angles and his curves. She shivered at the cold of him, so piercing that it seemed to sink into her very bones to freeze them stiff. She felt the blanket he grabbed, pulling it down from the bed to drape over her shoulders, but she did not budge, letting the chill of his body soothe her angry bruises while the warmth of his soul soothed her weary, ragged mind.

He touched the spot on her head again, bringing his hand up to cup the angry, pulsing bump, and when she felt his lips on her hairline she shivered, tucking herself down a little tighter.

She did not know how he did it— how he managed to hold all the pieces of her together— but he _did,_ and he did not push her away even when she began to tremble with the cold, or when the door opened again and there was a new, louder voice.

"We won't be able to hold him, Carlisle," the voice said and Bella felt his sigh on the crown of her head. "He won't be deterred…"

"Give us a moment, would you Emmett?" She heard the rumbling assent, the quiet, careful retreat. From downstairs there were more sounds— louder, now, and more urgent— but Bella paid them no mind as Carlisle gently pried her arms away, letting the ache grow stronger again in his absence.

She did not know what he saw in her— what torment he must have made out on the lines of her face— for when he sighed again the sound was sad and perturbed.

"You must know, Bella, why we were gathered in the yard."

And at once, she felt her face go hot.

The sight of him, so near and so perfect, had made her knees tremble though she had not been standing. She had avoided the sight of him, had avoided even the_ thought_ of him until that very morning, and she felt her worry on her face in mottled, cherry red. The heat in her cheeks was scarlet, her throat suddenly tight and nervous, but when she felt the cool knuckles brush away the redness she sighed, nodding only once to show she'd heard.

Behind her ribs, she could feel each beat of her heart like a drum.

"He's downstairs, Bella," said Carlisle, and Bella turned her face away. "He is…"

Carlisle hesitated, his eyes bright.

"He is… _anxious,"_ he said, choosing his words most carefully. "He's _very_ anxious, sweetheart, and he wants to come and speak with you."

At once, Bella was on her feet.

Though the speed of her frail human body could not shock him, Bella saw the surprise at the urgency of her movement, the suddenness. She was on her feet in hardly a second, her back pressed against the span of wall beside the window where she'd hidden, and there was a rushing now, in her neck and in her ears. Carlisle did not say anything— he only watched, his golden gaze unsettled— and when she shook her head he frowned again, reaching out his hand for her to take.

She did not, and he let it fall with a sigh.

"I will not force you, Bella…" The words came slowly, and as if from somewhere else. "I will not force you to see him, if that's not what you want…"

"I _can't_, Carlisle."

And that was the terrible, awful truth of it— she _could not_ face him, not with those words still hanging between them, and furthermore, she did not _want_ to. She did not want to look into those eyes and see the man she remembered, the kindness he would show her, the sweet words he would whisper. Rosalie's visit hung heavy in her mind, her words weighted down like anchors— _he is not coming back for us—_ but Bella could not believe it. She could not believe that he would be here for _her, _that he would _want_ her again after the things she'd seen and done, and she would not do that to herself again, would not give him the satisfaction.

Because she knew that if she let him, he would ruin her again ten times over and because she was so weak she would take it, again and again, until it destroyed her altogether.

"That's alright, Bella…" There was a commotion, a scuffle, outside the door. "That's quite alright, now…"

"Let me _go, _Emmett!" The muffled voice made her flinch, and there was a scratching at the door. "For God's sake, Emmett, let me _go!"_

She trembled when she spoke, the words warped as if she were speaking underwater. She hardly recognized the sound of it— the odd cadence, the high, thin warble— but the noises stopped at once, the hallway silent as a grave.

"Go away, Edward." The name, passing her lips for the first time since he'd left her, made an ache shoot down from her head to her toes. "Go away and leave me alone. There's nothing in the _world_ that I want to say to _you."_

"Bella, please…" Her name, so sweetly spoken, made her turn, her face pinched with sudden grief. "Bella _please._ Just open the door…"

"Make him stop, Carlisle," she begged, and at once he was on his feet. "Please, make him go. I don't want to see him. Please, _please _make him _leave."_

* * *

The fear in the room was a tangible entity, as if the house had come to life and was squeezing, crushing them in jaws of steel and iron. Alice felt it in her bones, writhing like worms beneath her skin, and she tasted it on the tip of her tongue as if the air itself were singed with it, blackened and burned.

From upstairs, the voices rang clear.

"Bella _please… _Just open the door…"

"Make him stop, Carlisle. Please, make him go. I don't want to see him. Please, _please_ make him _leave!"_

"Bella, love, _please…"_

"Don't _call me that!"_ The voice shouted in the hush and Alice felt a thrill of vindication, of righteous, wholesome pride. "Don't you _dare!_ Make him leave, Carlisle, _please… _or let _me_ go. If he won't, then _I_ will."

Alice was on her feet, her teeth bared as she ascended up the stairs.

On the second floor landing Alice halted, her gaze honed on that trembling form in Emmett's grip, the agonized, terrified face that earned nothing from her but scorn. Emmett's hands were immovable though their brother thrashed and pulled, and Emmett scowled at him, disapproving. Edward reached for the doorknob, his fingers scrabbling madly, and it was Alice who slapped him away just as Carlisle pulled the door open.

The tableau must have seemed ridiculous to him, so calm and so even-keeled as he was. The three of them were frozen— Edward still straining, Emmett's fists clenched tight around his arms, and Alice's fingers, curled into claws as she prepared to strike again, when her first warning blow had not deterred him. All three heads turned to see their father as he fixed them with a cold, hard stare, and when he closed the door resolutely behind him, Alice could see that the girl was turned away, her back to them as she curled up on her bed.

"You will respect her wishes, Edward," said Carlisle, and at once, their brother deflated. Emmett held him still, hoisting him back to his feet. "You heard her as clearly as I, and I _know_ you were watching through my eyes. You know what she wants. You will not badger her."

"I only want…"

"What you want is the least of my concerns right now," said Carlisle and there was a coldness in his voice, a hardness that Alice had not heard before. Evidently, Edward hadn't either for he flinched at the sound of it, so sharp and so unfeeling. "You will leave that child alone. She's had enough to put up with in the weeks she's been with us, and I'll not have you undoing what little progress she's made."

"Carlisle I _need…"_

"You _need_ to get yourself downstairs," said Carlisle, and his hand joined Emmett's on Edward's wrist. Emmett's release was slow, and careful. "You need to go downstairs and _listen,_ for there is much to say and so little time in which to say it."

"Carlisle…"

"Enough." Father's word was final, and there was silence on the stairs. "That's enough, Edward. Now _go."_

Alice grinned, her sudden burst of pride lingering long, and when she heard the shaky release of breath from behind that wooden door, she knew at once what she must do.

When she entered, the girl froze, petrified.

"It's only me, Bella," she said, and at once her shoulders loosened. "It's just me…"

When the girl turned, Alice saw the roiling panic, the fear.

"You are quite safe here, you know that?" she asked, but the girl only frowned at her, turning away. "Carlisle has told him to leave, as you asked."

Her face went pink, and Alice scowled at her.

"Don't go feeling badly, Bella," she said. "Not for_ him. _You've nothing to be ashamed of, you hear?"

"I'm not ashamed…"

"Then what?"

She sat on the bed, so soft and so careful, and when Bella put her head in her lap, Alice did not deny her. She stroked her cheek, so warm and so sweet, and waited for the careful return of speech.

"I don't know how to say _no,_ Alice," she said. "I don't know how to say no to _him."_

"You just did."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

The girl looked at her, and there was a new worry there, an _urgency._

"I'm afraid…"

"Of what?"

"Of what he might _do."_ The word was muffled, and low. "Of what he might _say_ to make me believe him again, and what I might _feel_ when he does."

And like a viper in its nest, Alice's anger rose again, this time tinged with powerful, furious offense and she cursed her brother to the deepest pits of hell where he belonged. He had played this girl like a fiddle— had toyed with her and spoiled her until she hardly knew her own mind— and Alice would not stand for it. Not for another, single minute.

"You will _stand up for yourself,_ do you hear me?" Alice whispered. "You stand up for what you want, Bella, and don't you _dare_ let him ride roughshod over you. Not ever again, do you understand?"

"I don't know_ how,_ Alice…"

"You_ will."_ The promise was as solid as gold, as immovable as steel. "I know you will, honey, if you just give yourself some _time._ Don't you let him bully you… I know _I_ won't."

"I…"

"What, Bella?" She kissed her sister, letting her lips linger on that warm, soft cheek as the girl fought for her words. "What?"

"I _miss_ him," she whispered, and Alice felt her frown, so full of disapproval. "I _miss_ him, and I _hate_ him, and if I could, I'd _slap_ him silly…"

"That can be arranged," said Alice, her fingers tingling with the threat of possibility. "That is more than easily arranged, dearest…"

"No." She closed her eyes, so tired and so thin. "No, Alice. It can't be."

"I'd be more than happy to…"

"_I_ can't," she persisted, and Alice felt the weight of the words, their truth. _"I'd_ do no more damage than a kitten, Alice, and that's my problem."

"You know what Carlisle offered you…"

"Yes."

"But you won't take it?"

"I don't_ want_ it, Alice." Her voice was tired, and so, so soft. "I _can't_ want it… not now."

"I know things have changed…"

"I miss my dad, Alice."

Alice closed her eyes, her arms tightening.

"I know you do."

"I miss my _mom…"_

"We don't know where she is."

"Yes we do." The declaration was hard, and filled with such a terrible grief that it made Alice breathless. "Yes we do…"

"We don't _know."_

"_Yes I do."_

"Oh honey." Alice's words were thick, and hot. "Oh, Bella… I'm sorry."

Bella simply put her head down on Alice's shoulder, swallowing hard.

"There's nothing more to say about it, Alice," she sighed, and Alice squeezed her harder until she heard a little gasp of pain.

"There is _everything _to say, Bella," she returned. "Everything in the world. They deserve that much… _you_ deserve that much."

Alice could hear the way she kept her breathing steady, each inhale and exhale as strong and purposeful as the last.

"I can't take what Carlisle has offered me," she said, and Alice felt the pang of sorrow in her heart. "I can't take it because if I _do,_ I'm never going to see them again. That's all I've got going for me now, Alice. That's all I _have."_

"No, it's not…"

"Isn't it?"

"Rosalie told you the same thing," said Alice, and Bella snorted at this. "She told you the _same thing._ You have_ us, _Bella, for as long as you need. I don't care if that's an hour, a day, a year, or a hundred, _you have us."_

"For now," she agreed, and Alice felt the frustration in her breast like hot, molten fire. "For now, Alice… until you get tired of me again."

She blinked in surprise.

"Is _that_ what you think?" she demanded, and when she pulled the girl away, she felt the heat of that accusation. "Is that what you_ think,_ Bella? That we're going to get sick of you? That we're going to throw you away when we're finished_ playing house_?"

Bella only shrugged, her eyes curiously dry, and there was a speculation in her gaze when she met Alice's, a curiosity that was at once macabre and calculating.

"You did last time," she said, and Alice scowled at her, incensed. "You left last time when you got bored, and—"

"We did not _get bored."_

"Then _why_ did you leave?" Her voice was raised, now, and there was an edge of anger that Alice rarely heard. _"Why_ did you leave, Alice, and why didn't you ever write _back?"_

"Write back?"

"Never mind." She laughed, and pulled herself out of Alice's grip. "Just never mind, Alice. It doesn't matter."

"Yes it_ does."_

"No, it really doesn't. None of it matters. I just want to go _home."_

The word hung between them like a spider on its web, dangling precariously over their heads before the moment that it dropped. It was distasteful to Alice, and more than a little unsettling, and when she spoke again, her words were soft, and careful.

"Where _is_ home for you now, Bella?" she asked, and the girl's eyes flashed. "Where _is_ home?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to go to Charlie's?"

The laugh was tight.

"I never want to set foot in that house again, Alice. Not ever again. Not after…"

"Alright." She smoothed Bella's dark hair, letting her fingers untangle the knots at the nape of her neck. "Alright. You don't have to."

She only shivered, curling herself a little tighter on her blankets.

"Phoenix?" Alice tried, and this time there was a frown. "No?"

"No."

"Jacksonville, then? Where your mom…"

"_No,_ Alice."

Alice stared at her, her face suddenly pale.

"You're _not_ going to die, Bella," she said, and the girl stared back with obstinate defiance. "You _won't,_ do you understand me?"

"I _want…"_

"I would give you the moon, if I thought it would help you," said Alice. "I'd pull stars from the sky, or stop the sun in its course. I would give you anything and everything you could ever ask for— including my own soul, if it's still mine to give— but I will_ not_ give you this, Bella. We _cannot_ give you this."

"I _miss_ them, Alice."

"Oh honey I _know." _And she did, really. Alice _did_ know. She knew what it was to feel the pang of loss, to know that somewhere, in the great expanse of the cosmos, there was something out there that you wanted, that you _craved_, but that could not be yours. She knew what it was to miss her family, to have love snatched from her by cruel and dangerous hands, and what it was to live in the darkness where there was no one left to hear you.

But _Bella_ would never know that hell— not now, and not ever again— because _Alice_ was here, and she would listen. She would not leave her alone in the dark, as she, herself, had been left, and she would not abandon her to her miseries and her pains. She knew what it felt like, that longing to die, for Alice, herself, had felt it too— in the darkness of that cell, where her memories had been dulled to endless, torturous black. She hadn't known _why_ the blackness was all she knew— not until Bella had helped her solve the mystery— and in that solving, there was a closure, an end to a chapter she'd have rather left unread.

"I want my dad back, Alice," she cried, and when the tears came, they were quick. "I want my_ mom."_

"I know…"

"It's not fair."

"No, it isn't," she agreed. "It's _not_ fair, Bella…"

There were footsteps on the landing now, and Alice knew at once to whom they belonged.

"I miss my family." She felt the scalding tears on her neck, the complete and utter breakdown of a girl that knew too much, who had _seen_ too much. The figure outside lingered as Alice pressed that girl so close she could feel every bone in her back, and though she was careful not to squeeze too hard, she wanted to feel _present_, to feel_ strong._ Bella did not deprive Alice of that hug— did not pull away when her tears became her shame— and Alice loved her for it, loved her for the trust that she had put in her to show her truest self, and for the love that spilled out of her and onto Alice's white collared shirt.

When Esme came in, Alice knew at once what was needed.

"Here," she said, and when she offered the crying girl to her mother, there was no hesitation, no resistance. "Here, Esme…"

Bella went to Esme like a little child to its mother and though Alice knew that Esme was not the _right_ mother, she thought she made a damn good substitute. Esme knew the love of a mother, had felt that sweet and sacred bond with a child of her own, and so she knew how best to love _this_ girl, so lonely and so aggrieved. She knew how best to hold her when the tears fell down in floods, and how best to soothe when the sadness grew too strong. She knew how best to whisper, knew just what words to say, and Alice watched with muted pride as her mother took that girl into her heart where she would be safe, and warm, and _loved._

When she slipped from the room, her feet were lagging, and by the time she reached the living room she was stormy again, her shrewd eyes narrowed.

On the sofa, crammed between his brothers, sat Edward, with a face like tragedy and such an air of such intolerable _suffering _that Alice felt her irritation rise like mercury. She had no pity for him, this brother who'd betrayed her, and she had no sympathy for the pains he now endured, and when she spoke it was with a coolness, a sharpness that twisted the blade that Bella had launched with her rejection.

"I hope you're proud of where your vanity has brought us, Edward," she said, and at once, there was a snarl. Jasper's answer was menacing— he would tolerate no threat to his wife, no matter what the source— and Edward was chastised, but not enough to drop his stare of fire and brimstone.

"It is not _vanity_, Alice…"

"Pride, then," she said. "Or idiocy. I don't care which label you use. Take your pick."

He slumped then, sinking down on the couch with such a sigh, and in the quiet of that pause they heard the sounds of love from up the stairs, the grief that poured like quicksilver. Carlisle stood near the steps, his handsome face curled in aggravated worry, and Alice knew why he lingered there, in that spot. She knew _why_ he guarded the staircase like he did, why he did not shift his attention for even one moment from the son who had just been returned to him, and it made Alice proud to see his conviction, his dedication not to his first child, but his last.

"_I miss my family,"_ she had said, and Alice could see how that had wounded her father deeply. She missed her family, because her family had not left her. They had not up and run on the whim of a _boy,_ had not abandoned her in her time of need because they thought they knew better. Her family had been _taken,_ so cruelly and so quickly, and she was the one who had suffered for it, but Alice knew that if her father had any say in the matter whatsoever, that girl _would_ have her family back, though not, perhaps, in the way she expected.

"If I could only_ see_ her, Alice, and talk…"

"She doesn't want to talk to you." This was Rosalie, now, her voice ringing like bells in the silence. Edward could not disguise his shock, his _disgust_ at this interference, and though Rosalie did not rise to answer his anger her temper still flashed, so hard and so sharp. "You will abide by her wishes, Edward. That's the very _least_ you can do."

"I _need_ to see her…"

"You'll live." The dismissal was callous, its implications loud.

_You'll live, Edward, without her love, and you'll do it gladly for the mistakes you've made. You will thrive in the shadow of her grief, and you will let her grow beyond you, without you. You will let her grow so tall, and you will let her grow so strong, because if you don't, _you'll_ live, but she might not._

This thought made her brother snarl again, and when he tried to rise, Jasper shoved him back.

"You will_ not,"_ he hissed, and there was such a blackness, such a _rage,_ that even Edward looked cowed. "You will not even _think_ of touching her, do you understand me?"

Edward said nothing to Jasper, but spoke again to Alice.

"She is _grieving."_

"Her father and mother are _dead,"_ spat Alice, and he flinched, as she knew he would. "Her family is _gone,_ Edward. You heard her upstairs… no doubt you even _saw_ her, peeping like you do…"

He cringed at that last accusation, but did not deny it. Alice had known he would be watching. She knew that he _always_ watched when he knew he shouldn't, and she had hoped that it would hurt him.

"She wants to go _home,_ Edward… she wants to be with them," said Alice, and this, it seemed, was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. She saw him fold like a bad hand of cards, watched the weight of that invisible burden crush him down like a spider underfoot, and he began to weep, though there were no tears to fall.

"I only wanted her _safe. _I only _ever_ wanted her _safe, _Alice."

"She _was_ safe," she returned. "With_ us. _With her father."

"I need to see her…"

"But she doesn't need to see _you."_ The words hung heavy, and sore. "She doesn't _want_ to see you, Edward, and she is well within her rights. You came back to _save_ her. You came back to fight for her, because that is what is _right._ You will do that much for her— you will save her from this danger, at least, and eliminate the threat that stole her family— but beyond that, the ball is in her court."

"I need…"

When Emmett rose, it was with a fiery anger that Alice rarely saw.

"It is _her decision!"_ The growl was low and rumbling. Alice could feel it underfoot in the very fabric of the house, in the floorboards and the walls. "You will do_ nothing_ more, because what becomes of her life will be her_ own choice!"_

"Emmett…"

"I've_ had_ it," spat Emmett, "with your simpering. I've had it with your _whining._ _You_ made a choice, Edward— one that most of us spoke against, if you'll remember— and now, you can suffer the consequences. _You_ chose to leave her, and _we_ chose to follow. That was _our_ folly, but the rest of it is _yours."_

"I never meant…"

"It doesn't _matter_ what you meant! None of it matters, Edward, because this is what's _happened!" _His voice rose, and his face was white as bone. "You gave me a sister— you brought that girl to me, and made me love her— and then you tookher, and you almost lost her. _You've_ been here all of twenty minutes, and already you're making demands! You, who have done absolutely_ nothing_ to keep her safe, to keep her _well!_ You've done _nothing,_ brother. _Nothing_ for her—"

"_Everything_ I do is for her!"

"Then do it _better."_ The growl was menacing now, and sharp. "You need to do _better_, Edward, because what you've done so far? It's absolutely_ useless."_

"I never meant…"

"It doesn't _matter_ what you meant!"

"If I could only _see_ her—"

"She doesn't _want_ to see you!"

"She _must—"_

When Emmett's fist shot out, a blur of white flesh, it connected with Edward's jaw in a sharp and angry blow. Alice knew that he could not really _hurt_ Edward— there was no way Carlisle would tolerate _that,_ no matter how upset he was— but it satisfied Alice when she saw his face snap around, the gasp so sharp it pierced the air.

"_You will do as you are told,"_ Emmett hissed, and Edward kept his mouth shut in surprise. "You will do _exactly_ as you're told, and you will do _exactly_ what is needed, because if there is one thing on the face of this earth I care less about right now, it's the things that _you_ want. You are a _child_, Edward— a simpering, snivelling _child—_ and I will take no more orders from _you."_

"She…"

"Will make her own decision," said Emmett, and even Alice sensed that the word was final. "She will make her own choices, Edward, whether you like them or not, and by all the gods in every sky, you will_ listen._"

She saw the fight go out of him as he ran his fingers through his hair, the bronze mess even more unruly as his black eyes flashed. She saw the sudden acquiescence, the quiet acceptance of what he'd been told, and when Emmett saw it, too, he backed away, his temper still sizzling.

Rosalie said nothing at all, giving Edward only a scornful, pitying glare before she rose to join her mate, letting him take her into the circle of his arms.

For a moment, the room stood still.

Standing by the staircase, nursing that angry, festering wound in her heart, Alice did not say a word as she stared at the rug beneath her feet. She could feel the tension in every muscle, could almost _hear_ the racing fury that came from her brother, and when she closed her eyes, just as Jasper was rising from Edward's side, she felt a strange, yet familiar pull and she let herself fall.

The shock of the vision was vivid, like plunging into ice-cold glass from a great and terrible height. She felt the fall, the thrill of the ride before she hit the ground like a runner, her feet wet with snow and her face glazed with flying, angry sleet.

_She was in a clearing, now, with her face turned north, and as the wind howled and the sky raged black, she could feel the ice crystals on her skin in the ferocious springtime storm. The ground around her was grey and bleak— wildflowers, just beginning to open with colour and life, had been crushed beneath the wet, icy snow, and the grass was trampled into great, muddy ruts. She did not know where she was— the clearing was not familiar to her— but she could smell her brother here, so strong and so sweet_.

_The quiet lasted only the barest second— just one, calm moment before the wind picked up again— and there was a noise at her back, deadly and quick. Before she could turn she saw the form of her husband like a lion on the hunt and she watched him fly as he leapt over her, his feet landing some ten yards away as he began to sprint. _

_There were no words here, and no sounds but the wind, and as Alice watched, confused, there came the sound of running feet. Some from behind, and others up ahead, but Alice only stared at Jasper as he ran, hurtling towards the trees at the other end of the clearing. She heard Emmett behind her, and Edward's furious pace, and Rosalie was waiting, her eyes narrowed on her husband as he chased after his brothers while Jasper ran towards the darkness of the trees._

_When she saw them, emerging like spectres from the snowy, black forest, she felt her horror sinking like a cold and icy brick. They came in a rush, like a wall of skin and bones, and they were tracking, tracing Edward's scent on the path he'd taken home. They ran on legs of steel, so quick that Alice dared not even blink, and when Jasper hit the first of them, sending the pair flying into the cold, wet snow, Alice let out a cry as the world dissolved into chaos._

_And right on the edge of the woods, flickering like a fire in the cold, she watched that pale, red-haired face as she stomped her foot on the frozen, blue forget-me-nots, disappearing with a hiss through the trees while the carnage raged on._

When she came back, Edward was on his feet.

"When, Alice?" he demanded, and she shook her head in shock. _"When?"_

"You saw as clearly as I did," she spat and the family was there, now, each as worried as the next. "You saw _exactly_ what I did…"

"There was snow, Alice…"

"Yes."

"And a storm…"

"_Yes."_

"But the flowers…" Together, she and Edward both looked out, staring at the edge of the yard where a small strip of blue forget-me-nots had always grown, where there was, even now, a neat row of thin, delicate stems. The leaves were still baby green, only the tender beginnings of new growth, and they were not quite so big as they would be, but on the tip of each of those stems, still encased in their sweet green leaves, Alice could see the flowers darkening in each of the folded sepals, almost ripe enough to bloom.

**A/N: So, as you can tell, I've made my decision about whether or not to include Bella's voice. I struggled to decide how I wanted to move forward, and I figured that Bella's feelings about Edward would be best described in Bella's voice, and so here she is. I hope this helped clear some things up for those of you who are a little frustrated or confused about what's up with her. I know lots of you are absolutely fed up with my version of Bella and how she is acting, so this note is just a little reminder about what this story is really about.**

**Please remember, no matter how angry my Bella might make you, that mental illness is a very real and very complicated issue. I know my story is fictional but I've done my best to try and make her as real as I can, with as many understandable emotions as I can. I've said it from the first: one of the things I despise most about Stephenie Meyer's source material is the lack of consequences and follow-through when it comes to the mental health line in New Moon, because depression and anxiety are not problems that someone can be talked out of. It doesn't go away simply because we want it to, and we can't control it without proper help and support. I know this story has been going for few weeks now, but in the world of the story there are only about two weeks from the prologue to this chapter. Because time is moving a little more slowly in the story than it has in real life, things are still complicated and a little out of control.**

**You can hate my Bella for her choices and you can hate her for her beliefs, but please don't hate her for suffering (or as some of you say, her "whining"). Mental illness isn't pretty and it isn't glamorous, and it's not going to go away in a wink so everyone can live happily ever after without first exploring some of the consequences and the fallout.**

**Phew. Lecture over... but now I have a question for you, if you are someone who writes for this platform. If you follow me on Twitter you may have already seen this, but I'm curious to know if it's happened to anyone else.**

**When I write my chapters, I use Google Docs which are then downloaded as .docx files (Microsoft Word) to be uploaded to the site. I do all my editing in Google, and only use Fanfiction's editing box to make formatting tweaks like page breaks and to add my author's notes. By the time it hits the site, the chapter is in its final version, and yet for some reason, in almost every chapter I post, Fanfiction has been deleting spaces between some of my words. It happens randomly, and sometimes I catch it before it goes out, but I don't always and it's driving me nuts.**

**If you have any idea why this happens or how to fix it, I'd love to know.**

** Thanks again for all your support. It means the world. XO**


	16. Snow

**A/N: I don't usually do this, but my song inspiration for this chapter is called "The Place Where They Go" by Carlos Cipa. It's a piano instrumental piece and you can find it on YouTube or on Spotify (and possibly Apple Music, though don't quote me on that).**

**Chapter 15**

The world outside was a tempest and Edward watched it rage.

In the silence of the living room, completely alone in the vast, empty space, Edward watched the whirling, scrambling storm as it roared through the trees like a wild thing, snarling and hissing in the great beyond. It was early April now— a time when snow should be long gone— and yet here was this early springtime storm come to decimate the world outside. It raged and howled between the trees, buffeting the windows with icy sleet that stuck in patches on the glass. The wind was strong as it blew those fluffy, wet flakes from side to side and all the while Edward watched it, his heart black with anger and terrible, stifling worry.

The day was young, only just past witching hour when the night was alive with ghosts, and Edward endured them with a subdued tolerance that was not at all calm. He felt the rage in his heart— that terrible, demanding urge to _act_, even when there was nothing left for him to do— and he was glad that he knew enough to _wait_, and to simply watch as the snow fell down in torrents.

He knew he was a fool— a terrible, proud, and overbearing_ fool—_ and as he listened to the sound of that living heart upstairs he felt such a tumult of emotion that he could hardly sort one from the other. There was gladness for that rhythm, beating strong and true, and there was fear that it might stop again. There was disgust for himself and the liberties he'd taken, and a searing pity that he knew she would not want, but that he let loose anyways. There was joy for her survival, and terrible anger at the thought that she might not want it, and such a seething hatred and roiling love that he could hardly sort them out, could not extract one from the belly of the other.

He hated the mistakes that he had made in his impulsive bid to keep her safe, and he hated the wrongs that she had done in her desperation to rid herself of the mortal coil that had made her so miserable. He hated the things he'd seen in his sister's head, the feel of her sharp, angry hand still flaring on his cheek, and he hated the violence he'd caused, the destruction he'd wrought. He hated his brother's memory of the blood in her kitchen, and his father's recollection of how she'd felt, so cold and so limp beneath his trained and able hands. He had felt Carlisle's worry for her— had felt the quick, sharp anxiety that he might not be _enough—_ and then the despair that had risen when he realized that he _could not_ give her the immortality she'd been so eager to claim not half a year before. He would not do that to her— not when she had made her wishes so blatantly clear— and Edward hated _that_, too.

But beneath that discord, at the root of everything he was or ever would be, there was such a fiery, burning _love_ that not even his hatred could quell. He was angry— with himself and with her— but that anger paled in comparison to the love he held for her, even now when she did not want to see him. He didn't blame her— what had he done for her that had _helped?_ What service had he rendered that had not ended in chaos and oblivion? If he could have, he would have avoided himself too, but _that_, it seemed, was impossible, for he did not even have the reprieve of sleep to relieve him. He _deserved_ no reprieve— deserved no release from the fraying bonds he'd severed, or the terrible, aching worry that had become his vision and his life. He _deserved_ the fear he felt for her body and her soul, and he deserved every waking moment of the torment he endured, for _she_ had endured it too, and more harshly than he ever would.

For him, there was no risk of danger— he could not be touched, could not be _taken_ by one so desperate as the huntress in the night. Victoria held no threat for him— she was not a fighter, and there were no loyalties among her brood to keep them intact— and he would eliminate her when the time was right. He would rip her to pieces, relishing each blow beneath his angry, trembling fists, and he would do it _gladly_ for the liberties that she had taken. A mate for a mate— for he was sure, now, that _that_ was her intention— was ludicrous. He should have known it— should have _anticipated_ this violence before it had come to such a vivid and ugly head— but alas, he had overlooked that, too, and there were no words in all the world that could make such violence _right._

Charlie Swan hadn't deserved it, had not deserved such a brutal and violent end, and Bella had not deserved to find him, to see such carnage brought down upon her kin. She had so little family to begin with, so few bonds of love that each was precious and sacred, and to know that _this_ one had been so brutally severed was inconceivable to him, unconscionable.

Edward had _seen_ violence, Edward had _participated_ in violence, but never, in all his life, had Edward committed _brutalities._ He had hunted, and he had killed, but the end was always clean, always _kind_ even when his prey did not deserve it. He did not play with his food, did not taunt and torment before he went in for the kill. He did not taint those last, precious moments with the adrenaline of the fight and the rancid stink of fear.

Upstairs in the bedroom, where he was not wanted, there was a whimper and a cry and at once, Edward's attention snapped to the staircase. He could see everything clearly, even in the dark, and he could hear her as plainly as if she were here before him. At the sound of that distress he heard his brother rise and the soft squeak of mattress springs as he lowered himself to the bed beside her, where Edward watched through his keen and piercing eyes.

She was there, in Emmett's head, tousled by sleep with a face pinched in distress even as she woke from her nightmare. He could hear her through Emmett's ears and through his own, the sounds of her fear like a soundtrack for the darkness,and it was enough to peel him away from the black window to rest instead by the long, ornate banister. He knew better than to intrude— knew better than to present himself again at that door, where his brother would be sure to remove him— and he forced himself to be still, and to watch.

"Hush, Bella." His brother's whisper was loud in the quiet, but she did not seem to notice. "Hush, doll. It's alright…"

She stared at him in a state of bewilderment, her eyes frantic as they roamed his face in the dark. Edward knew that she could not see him well— he could see how her pupils were dilated, and how her pulse throbbed anxiously in her neck— but Emmett was patient with her, and he waited. She blinked in the blackness, settling only when she felt his fingers brush her cheek, and when she glanced around the room, as if orienting herself to a space she did not know, she sighed, letting her head fall back against her pillow.

"Sorry."

"You've nothing to be sorry about," said Emmett, and Edward saw his pity, then, and so did she. He saw the tightening of her jaw, the sudden outflash of temper that might have made him laugh, had she not been so serious, but Emmett was unperturbed. He grinned at her, impish and hopeful, and she relaxed only slightly when he tapped the pad of his finger on the tip of her nose.

Emmett had always been mesmerized by her warmth, always taken by the constant movement of blood beneath her skin which thrummed with a life so tenuous and unfamiliar. He longed to feel it even now and Edward might have been worried for her, but Emmett was stronger than he'd given him credit for. He had lost the impulse to bite, the urge to _consume _long ago, and it was only appreciation that drove him now— a curious wonderment at the feel of that smooth and downy flesh.

"Are you still tired?" he asked. "It's very early."

"I don't know."

"Alright…"

And then, though Edward was nearly green with envy, he watched as his brother did something that he, himself, would have given a king's ransom for. He did not say another word, did not let anything else shatter the perfect silence of the house before he simply lay down beside her, letting her tuck her cheek against his arm. It seemed so easy for him—Edward supposed that in weeks of late, it had become so— and there was no fear, no hesitation. Edward had always known that Bella was intimidated by his brother because of his size, if nothing else, but that seemed to have vanished in his absence, melted away like snow in a thaw. She shivered against him, though he'd pulled her blankets tight, but she did not move, and though Edward felt Emmett's mild concern for her comfort, he did not move away.

"You really should sleep," he said when the silence had dragged on too long. She said nothing. "It won't kill you."

She snorted, and Edward cringed.

"I _can't_ sleep," she yawned, and Emmett stifled his grin. "I don't_ want_ to sleep."

"Alright then."

"Is everyone…?"

"Gone," confirmed Emmett. "Except Ed. He's downstairs."

"Oh."

Edward could not see her face— Emmett was not looking— but there was a tension in that word, in that lonely, quiet syllable.

"They'll be back at daybreak," said Emmett. "In a few hours. It won't be long."

"Are they…?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Don't worry about it, Bella," said Emmett and when he glanced down, Edward saw the flush of her cheek, the sudden embarrassment at being caught out. "They'll come to no harm."

"How come _you're_ not with them?"

"Because I already know how to fight," said Emmett and there was a grin— almost cocky, in Edward's eyes— but it did nothing to soften the girl who remained stiff and unhappy. There was a pucker between her brows, a sudden, worried energy that made her tense and awkward, and when Emmett gave her a gentle squeeze she sighed, shaking her head.

"It's not right."

"It's _necessary,"_ he corrected, "and so it _is_ right. They will come to no harm tonight, Bella. They're in no danger."

"But soon…"

"Yes." Emmett's sigh was heavy and Edward felt that threatening anger boiling up in him again. "Yes, _soon_. But not yet, honey. Not quite yet."

Edward returned to the window with a hiss and a scowl, staring once again into the blackness of the night, into the swirling vortex of snow and ice that pelted down from clouds as heavy as iron. In the place where those flowers had been— in the spot where he'd watched, over a series of hours and days, as those tiny, soft forget-me-nots had budded and blossomed into azure blooms— there was only snow, now, and frost. The days had gone by so slowly, trickling like grains of sand in an endless hourglass, but the ripening of those flowers and the destruction they would bring had spurred them into motion, had made them _urgent_ in their mission to protect, and to train.

Edward knew, of course, where his family had gone, for they had left for the same place every single night for the past week and a half. They cycled through their fighters— sometimes Alice stayed, or sometimes Esme or Carlisle— and tonight it had been Emmett, along with Edward brooding by the window, who were left to guard the girl. She could not be left alone— not even when she was sleeping— and so they took it in turns to watch her, to make sure that she did not pitch herself through a window or string up a noose with which to hang herself.

Edward was sick at the thought of it— the vivid vision of her swinging from the banister, or bloody and broken in the flowerbeds below the windows. He had _seen_ her dead— Alice's memory, her clear and accurate recollection, had been piercing and sharp, and it stuck with him like a bad smell. He would remember it always— would keep that image in his head like an oil painting— and it would haunt him even long after this terrible time had passed.

So in the night, when his family went to spar under Jasper's careful tutelage, Edward watched the world outside and he waited, in vain, for the moment when he might be allowed back in. Out in the wilderness, in a clearing amongst the trees, his family fought, and he, standing alone in the empty house, waited and brooded in the dark.

"But I _wish_ I could _know,"_ said Bella, and Edward was distracted again. "I wish I could know for _sure_ that nothing would go wrong…"

Emmett said nothing to her and Edward did not blame him, for there were no promises that he could make, no assurances that he could give. Edward knew this— he knew that there were no guarantees, even as they prepared themselves for the confrontation— and this only made it worse, the lack of knowing. He wished he could give her that assurance, that he could promise her that there would be no damage done, no loss too great or terrible, but the truth of it was that he _couldn't_, and neither could his brother.

"I know," said Emmett, and he heard her hitch of breath, her soft, quiet sniff. "I know, Bella, but we'll be alright. No matter what happens, we'll be alright."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"How?"

"Because we're a _family," _said Emmett, "in every sense of the word, and that's what a family _does._ They hold you together, even when you're in pieces, and that's exactly what we'll do when this fight is won."

"But at what _cost?"_ she mourned, and Edward heard it then— the fear not for herself, but for _them._ That completely selfless disregard for her own safety, her concern for them at the expense of herself that was so ludicrous that Edward stared at the ceiling in disbelief.

"We all act willingly, and we all act with love, Bella," said Emmett. "It's our choice to make. No one is _forced_ to fight."

"But she only wants _me."_

"And she's not going to _have_ you," he said, and there was such confidence, such _certainty_ that even Edward was inclined to believe him. "She _won't_, Bella, because we won't let her."

"She might…"

"Hush now." Edward watched as Emmett's finger went to her lips, silencing any further arguments. "Be still, Bella, and calm. You've got nothing to worry about… we're more than capable of keeping you safe."

"I'm not worried about _me."_

"And maybe you should be," chastised Emmett. "You _should_ worry about yourself, because when all of this is over, you're going to have some choices to make."

"Yeah…"

"You don't sound convinced."

"Because I'm _not."_

"And why might that be?"

"Because I don't _know_, Emmett. I don't know whether I'm coming or going…"

"Then just know this," said Emmett, and Edward saw his love— his lips against her hair. He felt Bella's shiver, felt Emmett's complete and total dedication as he spoke his truth even though he knew Edward would be listening. "Know _this, _Bella… whatever you choose, however you decide, just know that you'll have our fullest support. I know you're confused and I know you're_ sad,_ but just know that when it comes down to it, we're all behind you, one hundred percent."

"I don't _know_ what I want," she said, and he laughed then, soft and indulgent. "I have no idea what I want anymore…"

"And that's okay," he said. "You don't need to decide all at once. You're so _young_, Bella… you've got plenty of time to make mistakes."

"I'm sick of mistakes."

"Aren't we all?"

"I don't know what to _do."_

"You will," he said, and he squeezed her again. "You will, Bella. Just give yourself some time to figure it out. There's no rush."

"It's already snowing…" Edward saw her head turn, saw how she moved to peer through the window, beyond which raged the blowing snowstorm that had painted the world white. Alice had told her what she'd seen— there had been enough concealment, enough _lies_ to last a lifetime, and Alice would not tell her any more— and so she knew what that snow meant, what it would bring. She knew that the fight would come when the flowers froze, and as the temperature dropped ever lower while the dark of night bore down, even _she_ could see, with her feeble human eyes, that those blooms would not last long.

"Leave that to us," said Emmett. "That's our concern, not yours. There's nothing you can do to stop it, just as there's nothing _we_ can do, and so we'll weather it the best we can. You'll hardly know a thing, Bella… these fights are quicker than you might think."

"Not quick enough…"

"No," agreed Emmett. "Never quick enough, and it's this _waiting_ that's the worst of it all. The waiting, and the not knowing."

When she turned her head away, Edward knew that she was crying though there was nothing in the world that he could do to stop it.

"There will be better days," Emmett promised, and she only sniffled, her voice lost. "There will be better days than this, Bella… I can assure you of that. They won't all be like this one, or the ones that came before."

Bella said nothing to this— neither to agree nor to refute him— and she simply listened. Edward heard the promise in those words, the certainty that he was _right_, and Edward hoped that he was. He hoped there _would_ be better days, that there would be sunshine, again, to chase away the cold, but just now he could not see it, and neither, he suspected, could _she._

"But you should rest," said Emmett, when the tears had dried and her eyes had fallen shut again. "You should sleep, Bella, while it's still dark."

"I don't_ want_ to sleep…"

"No, but I daresay you _need_ it," he argued. When he shifted himself away, slipping silently and slowly against the sheets, Edward saw how she frowned, how she curled herself a little more tightly beneath the golden comforter. "Everything will feel better in the morning after you've had a good rest. Give yourself that chance."

"I don't want to dream…"

"Dreams won't hurt you," Emmett whispered, and though she shivered in the dark, he rose. "Dreams _can't_ hurt you, Bella, and if you need me again, you only need to call. I'll hear you, wherever I am." He lingered by the bedside for only a moment— just long enough to run his hand down her hair again while she stewed in her own silence— before he turned on his heel and moved for the door, leaving her alone with the worries that he could not assuage.

When he made it downstairs in a fraction of a second he was on Edward at once, his frown telltale and his gaze unhappy.

"It's rude to eavesdrop," he said as he came to join him at the dark, wintry glass. "She deserves her privacy… what little of it she has left."

"I know."

"Yet you watch her anyways."

Edward hung his head, feeling the guilt, the _shame_ in the pit of his stomach. Emmett's eye was curious, peering at him with careful calculation and though the gaze was hard, it was not cold. Edward had grown accustomed to Emmett's shrewdness, to his unerring attention to his every, waking move, and though it had ceased to irritate him, he had not grown fond of it. Edward did not like being watched and he appreciated the irony of that quite deeply, and he knew that his brother, too, would call it out, and so he did not voice it.

_Give her time._ Emmett's thought was loud and intrusive. _Give her time, Edward, to figure out what she wants to do._

_If only,_ Edward thought, _they had_ _the time to spare_.

"I'm trying."

"Try _harder._"

"I don't know_ how," _he said, and Emmett's sigh was sympathetic, if not entirely supportive. "I don't know_ how,_ Emmett… not when she's up there, like _that."_

"I know."

They both knew, for they both _felt_ it— that bond of matehood, that longing _urge_ to soothe and to comfort when there was pain or distress— and Edward knew better than most just how well_ Emmett_ understood. Emmett knew what it was like to be bonded to one that wanted out, to be bonded to someone who wanted nothing more than for life to return to the way it had been before. He knew what a challenge it was to overcome that longing, and what a terrible trial it was to watch that suffering without a hope of a cure. Edward recalled the early days of Emmett's mating bond with his sister— the way he had tried and _failed_ to do what he thought was right— and he shivered. It _shouldn't_ be that way, he knew. It shouldn't hurt to love, just as it shouldn't hurt to _live,_ but that was not the way of things in a world that was not fair, and so they would endure it. They would continue on until that ache receded, and when he was let back in, he would do his best, though he knew it would never be good enough. Just like Emmett could not erase the past, could not undo all of the wrongs that had been done, Edward, too, was doomed to fail, though he would go down trying, no matter what the cost.

He left his brother there, standing in his stead at the window like a guardian. The night was still so dark, without so much as a star to light the sky outside, and Edward felt restless. He did not like this waiting— did not like to sit idle while the storm raged on with his family in its grip— and so he began to tinker, ever so lightly, with the ivory keys on the dusty grand piano.

That piano had been a gift for him from his father to thank him for his companionship and his care— the latest instrument in a long line that had come before, new iterations and improvements arriving with each passing decade. The piano had been Edward's first and only love for years after his Change, and his respect for the instrument had flourished into great and powerful music throughout the years as he'd mastered the keys. Edward loved the melodies, found solace in the songs he played from great composers and his own, humble talent, and he found that love again now, though it was muted and sober.

The keys were glossy still, hidden from the dust beneath the ornate cover that lifted soundlessly beneath his fingers. It had not been tuned— Edward would trust no one but himself to do it, and he had not so much as laid his eyes on it since his return to the house— but when he played a scale, he found that it needed only minor tweaks. When he sat down before it, his fingers resting on the keys, he felt a surging thrill that he had missed, and when he began to play, the notes came as easily as breathing.

Music was his home, as important to him as this house that sheltered him, and though the night was dark and the storm was cold, the notes he played seemed to soothe him, to bring him life. He did not know the song he played— it was new, and it was sweet— and as his fingers danced, he began to lose himself.

Music flowed from him like blood, spilling out into the night to fill the room with its warmth and its life. He did not know where the song came from— did he hold it in his heart, or did it come from somewhere else?— but in that moment, he did not care. He played the song through once, and then he played it over again until it was committed to his memory, the sounds drifting across his mind like notes on a page that he would transcribe later. He did not notice that Emmett had turned, or that the music he made had filled the room with sound, but when he heard that first, gentle footfall at the top of the second floor landing he faltered, his fingers tingling.

"Don't stop," Emmett said, and he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder. "Whatever you do, Edward, don't stop."

He picked it up again.

Edward listened as the sound of his song filtered through the air and the darkness like a siren's call. He could hear her footsteps, her quick and shallow breaths, and when he saw first one foot, and then another, he forced himself to play on.

She sat on the steps, far enough up the staircase that he could not see her face, but she listened to that music— every soft, sweet note. He heard her when she sighed, smelled the salty brine of her tears that rose, and then fell down her cheeks. She wiped them on her sleeve— he could see the way she brought her arm up to touch her face— but she did not move another inch until the song had ended once again, and the room went still, and quiet.

The silence was long as his hands drifted down from the keys, and he longed to move, though he knew he shouldn't. There was a full minute of that quiet, and then a second and a third, and by the time the fourth had gone by in a stagnant, stifling stillness, Edward was on the verge of rising, though he made himself stay still. Emmett's eye was on him, his mind warning him not to push, and he was glad that he obeyed when he heard the shuffle of her feet again, and another small, padding step on the stairs.

And then, like a little, pale ghost, she came, peeking into the living room with a hesitant frown as she took stock of the occupants therein. She saw Emmett first, leaning against the back of the sofa with a careful frown and he grinned at her, though only briefly. It took longer for her to notice _him,_ hidden as he was on the piano bench, but when she did, Edward felt such a thrill of hope that it left him breathless and weak.

To see her in the flesh was like coming up for air and he breathed her in, every last inch. He had seen her through Emmett's eyes, through his sister's memory, and his father's worry, but he had not seen her for himself, had not laid his eyes on her, other than that brief glimpse upon his arrival, for six, long months. There had been changes, it was true— she was thinner, her face was paler, and there were circles under her eyes to rival his— but she was still_ herself,_ still the same girl that he remembered. There was still that unidentifiable _something_ in her deep, brown eyes that spoke to him without words, without even conscious_ thought_. That pull he felt was strong, his draw to her undeniable, and when she faltered and fell back it was like a punch to the gut.

Her eyes dropped at once as if he'd burned her and there was a sudden, ungainly tension to take the place of his ease, his hope. When Emmett rose with concern from his place by the couch she latched on to him, letting him block her view of the piano and forcing Emmett stand between them so that he could no longer see _her_, either. They stayed like that for a moment, his brother holding her in a way that Edward couldn't, and though Edward was grateful for his brother's love of her, he was envious of it, too.

"Sit," said Emmett after a long, quiet moment, and she listened, plunking down on the sofa with a sigh. "It's alright, Bella… everything is fine."

"I'm sorry…"

Edward rose at once.

Though Emmett's eyes flashed with silent warning, Edward paid it no mind as he came first to the side, and then to the front of the sofa where she sat with her elbows on her knees. Her head hung low, her hair falling forward to shield her face from him, but she saw the way her spine stiffened, the way her body rose as if he were a threat to her, a danger. He supposed he _was_, in a way, though he would never dare to lay a hand on her, and she was not wrong to protect herself from him, to guard herself from any further hurt.

When he knelt, she did not move, either to let him in or to push him away. Emmett hovered close, his disapproval strong in the quiet of the room, but Edward paid him no mind as he reached first one hand, and then another, to rest on her curled knees. His touch was light, and it was brief, but it ignited like a fire in the instant that they connected and he knew that she felt it too when she gasped, her eyes pinched shut.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Bella," he said, and she began to tremble ever so slightly beneath his touch. "There's nothing in the world for you to apologize for, love…"

The endearment made her eyes pop open, the liquid pools hardening, and he could almost taste her anger, her desperation. When she spoke her voice was rough and her words were like ice, cold and hard. They pierced him, though he did not let it show, and once they were said she pulled away from him, curling her knees up so that he could not reach her again.

"Don't call me that," was what she said, and Edward let out a breath.

"I'm sorry."

"Just _don't."_

Edward did not know what to say. He could see her roiling anger, the furious frustration that he thought he would be able to _feel,_ if he could just reach out his hand to touch it, and he took it all in his stride. He could not read her, not in the way that he was used to, and so he struggled to make sense of the inner workings of her mind. In the lingering silence he posed the only question he could think of, though it hurt him to give it voice.

"Do you want me to leave, Bella?" he asked. "Do you want me to go? If you do, just say so… I won't impose myself, if that's not what you want."

"I just… I… no. I don't know." She shook her head as if to clear it, though the fog was heavy and thick. "I don't know what I want, Edward. I really don't _know."_

"It's alright…"

"No, it _isn't."_ Her teeth began to chatter and he brought her a blanket that she shrugged away. "It's _not_ alright. _I'm_ not alright…"

And Edward, never more thankful for his brother than he was now, watched as Emmett began to rise from the sofa, his gaze flitting nervously between the pair of them as if he was watching for something, waiting. Bella said nothing more though Edward could see the panic rising in her chest, and when Emmett rested a hand on her shoulder, she hardly seemed to notice. He could hear his brother's black thoughts, filled with frustrated curses and angry inaction, but he backed away when Edward reached again, leaving the two of them alone together. It was all Edward had wanted— all he had been asking for, since his return to the house— and he heard Emmett's warning as he moved towards the front door, donning his boots and a useless snow jacket to keep the worst of the storm away.

_Make it right,_ he said, and Edward watched as he disappeared into the trees in a fraction of a second. _Make it right, Edward, and don't screw this up._

"If you want to be alone, darling, you only need to say the word," he said, and this time she _did_ look, both at him and for Emmett. She frowned at the empty space behind her where his brother had been, glancing out instead towards the footprints that he'd left in the pristine, white snow, and she sighed, shaking her head again.

"I don't know what I want."

Edward sat on the floor before her, his legs folded beneath him and he waited in the stillness and the silence until she found her words again, and they flowed free from her lips like water.

"I just… don't _know_ anymore," she said, and the words were so thin, so _tired_ that he felt it in his own self. "I don't know anything… not _anymore."_

And he could not say a thing because this was a struggle that he did not know, a circumstance with which he could not empathize, because he had never been there. Edward had never felt the pain of loss— not like she had— and he did not know the terrible grief of abandonment. He knew what it was to love, and he knew what it was to _lose_ that love, but it had always been _his_ choice, and _his_ decision. She had never made those choices for herself— had never walked away from love for good or for ill— and he wondered, now, just how much his vanity had truly cost, how terribly his interference, however well-meaning, had thrown her world into chaos. He would not say _I'm sorry_ again, for it was nothing but an empty platitude, but neither could he sit there like a spectator to her sport of misery.

"I wish I knew what to say," he whispered and she shrugged her shoulder up, pressing her face to her arm. "I wish I could say the right thing, Bella, but I don't know how."

"Me neither."

And in his heart, he felt the burn— the aching tug of her against him, her resistance and her sorrow. They were bonded together like two halves of a whole, broken and beaten as they were, and he needed her like she needed the air she breathed. She was his balm and his comfort, his purpose and his goal, and he would never be through regretting the things he'd done, the terrible words he'd said.

"I never meant to hurt you, Bella," he said, and this time her eyes flashed with anger. "I never meant for any of this to happen like it did…"

"It doesn't _matter_ what you meant."

"I know…"

"Then why bother even saying it?" she demanded, and there was irritation, now, to bolster that anger. "What's the point of even _saying_ it, if you know it's useless?"

"Because it's all I have to offer," he said, and even to him, the excuse was feeble. "It's the only thing that I can give you now, even though I _know_ it's not enough…"

"I gave you everything I had," she returned, and her voice wavered, shook with sudden grief. "I gave _everything_ I had to you. I would have done anything, _been_ anything you asked me to be, just so long as you would stay."

"I never wanted that," he said at once. "You never have to change for me, Bella…"

"It never made sense, you know," she went on, and there was a hollow laugh, a quick, wet tear. "It never made _any_ sense."

"What didn't?"

"You," she said, and when she looked at him, he saw the depth of her doubt, both in him and in herself. "That you were here, with _me…"_

"It's the only thing in my life that makes any sense," he countered._ "You're_ the only thing I've ever known that makes _any_ sense to me…"

"You're perfect," she sniffed, and then she looked away as if she could not bear the sight of him. "Everything about you is so hopelessly_ perfect,_ and I'm nothing Edward. I'm _nothing."_

This declaration broke his heart and he took a moment to gather himself, though the admission came quickly, and without hesitation.

"I am far from perfection, Bella… so far that you can't even fathom it. I've lied, I've cheated, I've _killed_ before, and all for my own satisfaction, to gratify nothing but my own lust for power, or greed, or thirst. I've ruined lives, destroyed families… hell, I've almost destroyed_ you,_ and even still, you call me_ perfect."_

"You didn't destroy me."

"Not quite."

"You were _right_ to leave," she said, and she looked away again, her face in her knees. "You were right to leave me, because what you said was true."

The words in the forest, the words he'd spoken to set her free, burned in his chest like acid and ate away at the fibers of his memory until he could remember little else but the stinging betrayal on her face, the scent of her tears in the loamy, mossy woods. _I don't want you,_ he'd said, _and you're no good for me._ _You're no good for me… you're no good. _He knew the words were cruel— he had known it even _then—_ but to see her accept it so quickly, to find false truths in that wrongful accusation had been heartbreaking, and altogether too easy.

"It _wasn't_ true," he replied, and she laughed at him then, sudden and loud. "It was the absolute_ opposite_ of truth…"

"I've never understood it," she went on. "I never understood _why_ you would find anything of interest in _me._ It makes no sense, Edward… I can offer you nothing. I can give you_ nothing."_

"I don't care what you can give me…"

"But _I do!"_ Her voice rose louder. _"I_ care! Because what use am I— what _good_ am I— if I can't give you anything in return?"

"You gave me _yourself,_ Bella," said Edward, and when she tried to turn from him again, he took her face in his hands. Her cheeks were blazing hot, her rising emotion turning them mottled pink and red, and he relished the heat of her, the burn. He made her look at him— made her_ really_ look, though she tried to avoid it— and when he was sure that she was listening that she would _hear _him, he spoke most clearly and with greatest, tenderest care.

"You are the greatest gift that I could have ever received, Bella, whether you believe me or not. Before you, I was _nothing…_ not quite living, not quite dead, but caught like a fish in a net, never moving forward. We _can't_ grow, Bella— you know that— and so you _must_ know how special it is when you find something that helps you _move."_

"I never…"

"You _did," _he said, and when he kissed her, his lips on her sweet, warm cheek, she shuddered. "You brought me _light,_ Bella. You brought me _love._ We are not like humans… we do not change and we do not grow, and so you must know that whatever I've said, however poorly I've acted, there has never been anyone else in the _world_ that I care for more than you. I've made mistakes, Bella, and plenty of them, and all I can do now is beg for your forgiveness and spend the rest of my time on this earth hoping, _praying_, that you'll find it in your heart to let me back in."

She didn't say a word— not another sound as his admission washed over her— and Edward watched the cycle of disgust and disbelief roll over her in waves, each crashing into the next until he could hardly tell them apart.

"And what will you be?" she asked, and there was fear there, a nervous doubt. "What will you be to me, Edward, now that you've come back?"

"Whatever you _need_ me to be, Bella," he said, and she swallowed hard, her brow furrowed. "I will be whatever you need, for as long as you need it."

"But_ why_?" She spoke as if she truly did not believe, as if all the words he'd said meant _nothing. _Her lips were flowing over with doubt, with that terrible uncertainty that had become her norm and her defense, and though he could not fault her for it, he could not let it go. He did not speak in response to this question, but instead took her warm, trembling hand in his and brought it to his chest, right over the place where his heart should be. He knew that she could feel it— that she could feel that bond like a cable of steel that ran from his heart to hers, and though the connection was raw and wounded, it was healing. It would _always_ be there, connecting them through time and space, and so, too, would _he,_ for he had learned his lesson a hundred times over, and he had learned it well.

"Because I _know_ you feel it," he said, and though she pulled her hand away him, he saw how the other lingered on the invisible, jagged wound he'd left in her own chest by his departure. "I know that _you_ know what I'm talking about, even if you don't have the words for it."

"It still hurts."

"I know, love…"

"I don't _want_ it to hurt anymore," she said, and this time, she really did begin to cry. He hated the sight of it— hated each, pearly drop on her smooth, pink cheeks— but they would not be stifled, would not be held. "That's all I want, Edward… for it to stop hurting."

"I _know…"_

"Alice knows it too," she whispered, and he felt the fear then, reigniting like a torch in his belly. "Alice knows it too, and that's why she won't leave me alone."

"No…"

"But that's all I _want_, Edward… I don't want to _go. _I don't want to leave here, to leave behind a corpse for you to bury. All I want is for it to stop. For it to finally, _finally_ stop."

And that, he knew, was the terrible, awful truth of it— the truth he'd so long denied, and the truth that she could hardly bear to speak. He had hurt her, so deeply and so brazenly, and that hurt had only led to loss and to tragedy. He knew what Alice had seen in that vision— knew what the future would hold if Bella were to be left alone— and he _hated_ himself for what he'd done, for what he'd done to _her._ He had wounded her, and she had fled, and in that flight had been pursued. She had been chased, and hunted, and turned to sport for a creature far beyond her depth, and that chase had ended in such destruction and such utter, total chaos that there had been no recourse left for her— no other path to take but the one that would lead her _home. _It was a path he could not follow— a path destined only for the righteous, and the good— and the fear it struck in him to think that she might take it and leave him behind was as consuming as it was repulsive, and he could not let it stand.

"It _will_ stop, Bella," he said, and when he pulled her to him to touch her, to _feel_ her warmth against him, she did not resist. "I promise you, my love… it _will_ stop. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but you _will_ feel better than this. You will _heal_, because that is what you are designed to do. You will grow and you will rise, and when you do you'll be _glad_ that you stuck it out. There is so much more of life for you to live, Bella, and so much more to _love._ Don't throw it all away now… not before you find that light again."

When her arms came up to hold him, her trembling grip fiery-hot and tense, he let his chin drop to her hair, his eyes falling shut. Outside, the storm raged on, snow blowing in torrents and in waves through the trees and the sky, though inside it was warm, and calm, and safe. She was not crying now— her tears did not stain his collar— and he simply held her, breathing in her smell, her sweetness. There was still work to do, and Edward knew it well, but this was _not_ the end. As he held her there, in the stillness of the night, he thought that maybe, just _maybe,_ they had made a _start._

He would wait for her, would do whatever she asked of him, and if that meant a gift of time or space, he would give it. If she wanted him close, he would stick by her like glue, and if she wanted to leave him, he would let her go. He loved her enough for _that_, he knew— loved her enough to set her free, if that's what she needed— and he would do it gladly, if it meant she could be happy. That was all he had ever wanted— her safety, and her gladness, and her joy— and he had failed so miserably in the past that it was only right that she should decide for herself in the future, without his influence and without his interference.

"I love you, Bella," he said, and he heard her sniffle and her sigh. "You don't need to say it back— you don't even need to _feel_ it, if you don't want to— but I want you to know that. I love you now and I'll love you always, no matter what happens from here on out."

She nestled her face a little closer, pressing her cheek to the hollow of his throat.

"You take all the time you need," he said, "and when you're ready, I'll be here. I'll _always_ be here, until the minute that you order me away."

He should have known that this calm would be fleeting— should have known that his time with her in his arms would not be long enough. There would never be enough time— not for him, and certainly not for _her— _and when he heard the sudden noise that shattered the calm, he knew that she could feel his tension.

"What?" she asked, and she looked at him in surprise. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing…"

Edward heard it first in the trees, though he could not make sense of it in the moment. The sound was frantic, so sudden and so heated that it took him a second to figure out just what it _was, _and that second was precious, and taut. When he shot up Bella blinked, her catharsis melting into terror in an instant, and when Esme came through the door he knew at once what had happened. He could read it in her mind like a book, his anger overcoming his shock, and it lit him from the inside out, burning like magma in his belly.

_It's started,_ Esme thought, and Edward heard the cacophony of sound, the terrible flash of violence in her mind's eye. She had run fast, and she had run true, but even now, if he strained himself to _listen,_ Edward could hear the raging battle, the roiling confrontation in the denseness of the trees, hidden behind the guile and blackness of the storm.

"They need you," said Esme, and Edward was on his feet, Bella staring wildly between the two of them with her heart in her throat. "They're asking for you, Edward, and you're stronger than me. I'll stay with her here, I'll keep her_ safe,_ but they need _you_ now. It's already started."

It was too early, he knew, and altogether too _soon._ The storm should have passed before they came, according to Alice's timeline. The flurry outside should have lessened to only a light fluttering of sleet and snow before there was even a _hint _of worry, or concern. He did not know what had happened to change those plans— what had gone so wrong in that vile camp to advance the assault— but he could smell the truth of it on Esme's clothes in the form of that acrid reek, the telltale scent of _burning._

"Is it…?" Bella's voice was shaking, and she was on her feet. "What's _happened_, Esme?"

"I must go, Bella," Edward said before his mother could answer, and Bella's fear shone bright from every pore. "I'm sorry, love. I must go now. Esme will stay with you. Go on upstairs."

"Edward?"

"I'll be back," he promised. "Don't worry about me, Bella. I'll be back…"

"Esme?"

"Come, darling," said Esme, and at once, Bella was in his mother's arms. "Come. We have no time to waste, now…" _I'll keep her safe, Edward… now please. Go._

Edward did not need to be told a third time, and he ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, through the door and down the yard. Behind him, her nose pressed against the glass of an upstairs window, Bella watched in bewildered terror as he retreated, and he had just a moment to see her tearstained face before he saw his mother's hand on hers, gently coaxing her away from the window. She went with some resistance, her fingers brought up in a tremulous farewell, but Edward could not dwell on that now, and he began to run.

Behind him, he heard the metal clinking of the shutters before he sprinted, headlong, towards the rising sound of the fight from the clearing in the woods.

**A/N: Holy _crap_. Alright. So. My apologies for the lateness of this chapter (though in reality, it's only been a little over a week). For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you already know that this chapter was an absolute BITCH to write. This is the fifth version that I wrote, and the previous four were fully finished and fleshed out before they were scrapped. That means that this week alone, I've written over 35,000 words of useless content for this story, all in an effort to make this chapter make sense. I've been working up to it for so long and I had so many wonderful plans for how it would pan out, but it turns out that in the end, everything got scrapped because it simply didn't _work._ **

**I'm not entirely happy with how this fifth version turned out, but it's certainly much better than what came before. The first four were the wrong POV (I went with Jasper first, and then a Carlisle/Emmett split chapter, and then two shots at Bella, who absolutely REFUSED to cooperate and stop throwing tantrums left, right and centre). The first version was too choppy, the second was just weird, and third and fourth versions just ended up being _whiny,_ and so they will never see the light of day so long as I have control over where this story goes. Those of you who write will understand - sometimes characters just _refuse_ to cooperate, and you end up with no alternative but to scrap them and try again.**

**For those of you holding out for a non-canon pairing, I apologize again. This story was never intended to be that way and as much as I love your enthusiasm for it, it's simply not right for me in the context of this story. Also, don't take Bella's kindness as forgiveness- these two still have a lot of work to do before they're anywhere _near_ ready to try again.**

**For those of you who read the note at the start, the song at the beginning ("The Place Where They Go" by Carlos Cipa) is what I listened to on repeat the whole time this version of the chapter was being written. It's how I imagine Edward's song to sound, and I really, really like it.**

**Sorry for the cliffhanger. Next chapter, we'll see some fighting.**


	17. Battle

**A/N: Please see the end for a little explanation. Also: VIOLENCE WARNING AHEAD!**

**Chapter 16**

In the darkness of the house, Esme watched with muted urgency as Edward disappeared into the trees on the north side of the yard. Like a ghost in the cold he moved in silence, leaving nothing behind but footprints in the snow. He was a silhouette in the storm, a beacon in the dark, and though Bella stood with her palm pressed to the icy glass, he looked back for only the sparest moment before he vanished like mist between the trees.

Bella stood by the window like a statue of marbled stone, her face unreadable and her eyes full of words that had gone unsaid. She did not want to move— indeed, when Esme reached to pull her back, there was ample resistance and a little hiccup of protest. When he did not reappear and the wind began to howl, she turned, blinking back her worry as Esme pulled her carefully from the glass. In the moments it took for her to urge the girl away, those footprints were buried by the angry, pelting storm, and when she saw the last glint of that bronze hair between the dark, shaded trees, she knew they had to move.

"Come, Bella," she said, and together, they took a step back. The metal panels over each window slid down with an ominous, rhythmic clicking, and Bella watched until the yard was obscured, the faint light of the overcast night blotted out. The wind was deadened, its howling reduced to cracking rushes against the house, and though she could hear the creaking of joists and the threatening patter of ice on the shingles, Esme could hear nothing of fighting or of violence.

Together they moved, as slow as molasses when Bella hedged, until Esme had backed them both into the ensuite bathroom on the far side of the room. There were no windows here— no outside access to pose a threat in the event of chaos— and Esme closed the door behind her as she urged the girl down on the edge of the tub.

"Esme?"

"It's alright, Bella," she said, and at once, she heard the girl's sniffle. She reached out her hand to brush her fingers over the apple of her cheek, but when Bella flinched, she withdrew.

"I can't see you…"

"I know."

"Can we turn on the light?"

"Not quite yet."

"Why not?"

Esme sighed, reaching out a little more cautiously this time, and when her touch was not rejected, she began to speak.

"Darkness is best, for now," she said. "Just until the others return."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"But you said…"

Esme waited, her ears trained for any hint of a disturbance.

"You said that… it's started."

"Yes."

"Already?"

"It would appear so," she sighed and when Bella leaned her head on Esme's shoulder, Esme did not urge her away. "We knew they would come with the snow."

"But Alice…"

"Alice saw what little she could," said Esme kindly, and she saw Bella's frown even in the dark. "She's been flying blind, so to speak, and we only know as much as she does."

"She said it would be later."

"The snows came early."

"But she _saw."_

"Alice is not infallible," said Esme, and this time, she felt the warmth of a blush against her arm. "She only sees what is decided. If those choices change, then there's no accounting for what might happen."

"I know, but…"

"And she's had a hard time with you," Esme said, and this time, the girl sat up. "You're difficult for her to see, darling, and we're all still learning the limitations of her gift."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

The girl fell silent. For a long moment they stayed like that— Bella leaning, and Esme listening— before another question was voiced and Esme pursed her lips.

"What happened, Esme?" she asked, and her voice was so small, so careful, that it broke Esme's heart. "What happened out there tonight?"

"We were sparring and they came upon us," said Esme, deciding that the truth, no matter how difficult, was better than a lie. "They must have heard us. The others sent me away at once to fetch Edward."

"Why?"

"Because he is the stronger of the two of us," said Esme, and this time, she saw the quick, unhappy frown. "He is the better fighter."

The girl bit her lip.

"He's better suited to it, that's all."

"But you're strong…"

"To you, yes," laughed Esme, grinning when she felt the feeble squeeze of those tender human arms around her middle. "To you, every single one of us is absolutely lethal. But against my own kind? Not, perhaps, as skilled as I might like."

Bella shivered.

"And Carlisle?"

"Quite able, when he needs to be."

"But…"

"But what?"

"Is he…"

Esme waited, her brow furrowed.

"Is he… alright?" The word was awkward and uncomfortable. "I mean…"

"I know what you mean," soothed Esme. "Carlisle is compassionate and he will do everything in his power to preserve life whenever he can, but that does not make him weak, Bella. He will do what needs to be done. If it comes to a choice between a stranger and his family, Carlisle will_ always_ choose his family."

"Sorry."

"Hush." The word fell like a rebuke and she smoothed her fingers over that flushed cheek again to soothe its sting. "Don't worry yourself about him, Bella. Carlisle will be fine."

"Can we turn on a light, Esme?"

"Not yet."

"Okay." Esme heard her thick swallow, the quickening of her heart. "Okay…"

"I know you're not a fan of the dark," she soothed, "and I'm sorry, but it's a necessary precaution."

"Why?"

"It would give us away," explained Esme and when the girl began to shiver, Esme pulled her close again. "Every second counts when the family is on its way. A door won't do much to deter her, if she comes upon us, but it will be better than nothing at all…"

"Deter her?"

"A bright room is a giveaway," said Esme, and this time, she heard the quickening of breath. "This is the safest place in the house for you, except perhaps Carlisle's workshop, but this will do just as well."

"Are we in danger, Esme?"

Esme did not respond.

"Is she…"

"More than likely dead, along with all of her creations," she replied, though this did little to pacify the girl's sudden worry. "Should she evade death, she would have a tough time getting through the others, which she would need to do before she could get to us."

"But she _could?"_

Again, Esme was silent.

"Oh god…"

Panic, Esme knew, was not Bella's way, and so when she heard the sudden, frantic heartbeat and the terrible, shaking gasp, she glanced sharply at the huddled figure beside her. Her face had gone pale now, losing much of its flush and colour, and her pallor reminded Esme too much of the sickbed.

"You will be perfectly safe," said Esme. "I won't let anything through that door. So long as I am here, all will be well."

"But you don't_ know."_

"Yes, I do."

"No…"

"We will not lose," she said, and there was such confidence, such assurance, that the girl did not argue back. "We will not fail you again, Bella."

"But if you do," began Bella, but Esme shook her head.

"We won't."

"But if you _do…"_

"We _won't_, darling. Not tonight."

And that was the simple truth of it— the only outcome that Esme would tolerate, the only outcome that would leave her family whole and intact. They would not fail, because such failure would be their ruin. They _could_ not fail because the consequences of that failure were simply too egregious to contemplate. She would not do it again— would not disappoint this girl the way she had before, would not leave her alone in the great, wide world where she could not be cherished and loved. She would not abandon her, would not leave her to the wolves who would devour and consume her the instant they laid eyes on her. Esme had always wanted to be a mother and when nature had taken her baby from her, she had fulfilled that dream in other ways. She would never again have a child of her own— would never feel those little feet inside her or the exhausted triumph of a new life delivered— but that did not mean that she did not have a _family._

She had been a mother since the day that baby had been born, and she had continued that legacy with all of the children who had made their homes with her. Esme was many things— she was a wife, she was a lover, she was an artist, and a builder— but she was a _mother_ most of all, and the girl that trembled with cold and fright on the edge of the empty bathtub was as much her own as any of the others. Isabella Swan was not a child of her body, as her baby son had been, but instead a child of her heart, and the roots she had laid down were embedded so deep that to tear them out now would be to bleed her own self dry on the shining marble floor.

Esme knew what it was to love and she knew what it was to lose, and it was the threat of that loss that drove her now and made terror well up in her so sharply that she thought it might choke her. She knew that terror like an old friend— oily, slick, and altogether pressing, like a strangling hand at her throat or a terrible squeeze of her heart. Had she been human, she would have felt it in the quickening of her pulse and the flush of her cheeks. She would have trembled with the force of it, struggling to hold her hands steady as she wrapped her fingers around the warm, thin ones at her side, but she was not_,_ and so the girl could not see it.

Never had she been called to serve any of her children as she'd been called to this one, and never had she been more frightened, more _terrified,_ of what the future might hold.

"All will be well, Bella," she said, though she could not justify it any further than that. "Don't fret, darling… all will be well."

Beyond the bathroom where they were hidden in the dark, Esme saw Bella's eyes flash up towards the door that she could not see. Esme knew it must have been worrisome— it was a great trial to go without sight— but Esme had no such restrictions and she could see the room in perfect clarity. There was no light above the threshold and though Bella blinked in an effort to see, her eyes did not linger on any one spot for long. Esme could hear the rapid heartbeat that thrummed in her throat, could smell the adrenaline that spoke of fear and of upset, and though she wrapped her arm around the thin, warm shoulders, there was nothing in the world for them to do but _wait._

Waiting, Esme knew, was a worse trial than the fight. The fight brought danger and it brought violence, but it did not bring uncertainty. Her family was ready— she did not doubt their prowess or their ability to eliminate the threat— and that any of them would be harmed was almost unbelievable. They were strong and they were skilled, as Jasper had trained them well, but there was always a chance, always a _doubt._

It felt wrong, to her, to sit idle in the house while her family battled in the snow. It felt wrong to leave her children and it felt wrong to leave her mate, though she understood the reasons why and wholly agreed that they were necessary. Esme was the weakest link— she was not a fighter, nor was she as vicious as any of the others— and when the choice had been between herself and Edward, it had only made sense to send him in her stead. Edward was fast. Edward was _strong_. And Edward had such a powerful motivation to win that there could be no better choice, no stronger fighter than one who was defending his mate.

In the silence and the stillness, Esme ruminated over her own misgivings and focused her attention on the world beyond, where the storm still raged and the snow fell in a wild rush. It was harder to hear, now— she could make out nothing from the clearing just two miles on, though in summer she would have been able to hear everything— and as snow caked the windows and buffeted against the house, it deadened the noise. She did not like it— she wished she could make out just a little of what was happening in the clearing— and so when she moved closer to the door, she was surprised by Bella's sharp and noisy gasp. Cold fingers scrabbled anxiously and caught at her shirt, and Esme was stilled in an instant.

"I'm right here, sweetheart."

"Don't go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Where are you?"

"Here, Bella." She took the girl's hand in hers. "I'm right here."

"Please don't leave me, Esme."

"I'm not leaving you."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes, there is."

"No…"

"_Yes."_

Esme pursed her lips until the silence grew long again, and just as she was about to interject, the girl spoke again.

"I never meant for any of this."

"You didn't cause this, Bella."

"I know."

"So you have nothing to apologize for. If anything, _we_ should be the ones to say we're sorry. Were it not for us, you would have never been exposed to such a danger in the first place. Had we not _left,_ the danger would not have grown so dire."

"You couldn't have anticipated this."

"Oh, Bella." Esme turned away, her shame hot and ferocious. It was a shame that would live with her always— a scar that might heal, if given the proper time and care, but one that would smart for years to come if it was prodded the wrong way. Those words, so kindly meant, were sharp, like blades against her impenetrable skin, and even worse, they were _false._

They most definitely _could_ have anticipated such a danger, and moreover, they _should_ have. They had known the risks. Esme herself had _encouraged_ it, had encouraged Edward's attachment to this wayward slip of a girl who, for reasons known only to God himself, had managed to do what none of her other children had. From the very first, Esme had seen this child as a gift, as a treasure to be guarded and loved, for Bella alone had been able to bring her son to life. She had brought him love and she had brought him purpose, but never, in all their time together, had Esme stopped to think just what this bond would do to _her._

"You didn't bring her here, Esme," said Bella, and Esme was at once angry with herself and terribly, dreadfully sad. "You didn't… cause her."

"Neither did you."

"I know."

"So why are you sorry, then?" Esme asked. "What could you have possibly done that would warrant my forgiveness?"

There was silence again for only a moment before she spoke.

"I'm sorry for what I did. For what I made all of _you_ do."

"You haven't made us do anything."

"I've made you fight," she argued. "I've risked your family, Esme, and if something goes wrong…"

"Nothing will go wrong."

"But if it _does,"_ she begged. "If if _does_, Esme… I never wanted it. Please. You need to know that I never meant for any of this."

"It's what's needed."

"I never wanted anyone to die for me…"

"No one is dying. Not tonight."

"Your family deserves better, Esme," she said, and when she hung her head, Esme saw a tear on the end of her nose. "They deserve so much better than this… so much better than _me._ I'm not worth it, Esme… I'm not worth _any_ of this."

And that, Esme knew, was the ugly truth of it— the terrible, skulking beast of Bella's fear, and the deep and buried root of her shame. _They deserved better,_ she said— better than _her,_ and more than she could give.

"Now you listen to me," Esme said, and she knelt close enough so Bella could see her in the dark, those eyes fixed on hers with a frantic ferocity that seemed to beg, to plead. Esme held those wrists in her hands, letting her fingers curl over the thrum of the pulse that came with each heartbeat, and when she spoke she knew that Bella was listening and that her words would be really, truly _heard._

"Listen to me, sweetheart, and hear me well. You _are_ worth it, because you are loved_, _Bella, and at the end of it all, that is the only thing in the world that we really have. _Love_ makes you worth it— love in all its forms— and no matter where you go, or which path you choose, ours will go with you. There is not a soul in this world that can stand alone forever, and you never will again. You're worth it to us because you're _ours, _Bella, and whether you believe it or not, you're _family._ We stand by our family, darling, no matter the cost, and _we_ _love you_. If it takes an hour, a day, a year, or twenty, I will tell it to you as many times as you need to hear it until you finally believe me. You _are_ worth it, honey… you've always been worth it."

And when she pulled her in, taking the trembling, crying girl into her heart and her soul, Esme felt such a rush of terrible, wrenching love that it pulled like a loose thread. It was the fabric of everything she was and everything she would ever be, that love for her family, and though it hurt her to feel it so recklessly unravelled, she relished the sting. She would give whatever she could, whatever she_ had_ if it would keep her family safe, and she would do it gladly if meant that they would be happy_._

"You did your part, sweetheart," Esme said, and she pressed a kiss to that soft, warm hair. "You did your bit. You _survived, _Bella… against all hopes and all odds, you survived. Let us do the rest."

"You've done so much already."

"Not nearly as much as we should have," Esme replied. "Not _half_ as much."

"You kept me alive."

"Only just."

"And under great duress." Her words were clipped now, and full of awkward tension. "I know I've made it difficult for all of you, and I'm sorry for that, too."

And though she wanted to, Esme did not answer back as those words hung between them. That apology so swiftly spoken and the heavy subtext made her pause. She heard the meaning of it as surely as she could hear her own thoughts— the apology for her crisis, the plea for forgiveness for the worry she'd caused. Esme would not deny it— there _had_ been worry, even _fear,_ but she would not give absolution for that which could not be helped. Some would call it a choice, a decision made against all rational thought, but Esme was not so readily convinced.

"Everything we do, Bella, we do out of love." She chose her words carefully, and with great trepidation. "And I think you do, too."

Bella only frowned.

"Others might call it something else…"

"Charlie called it stupidity." Her face was wet, now, and she wiped it angrily with the sleeve of her top. "He always said that it was one of the worst and most selfish things a person could do."

"Ah…"

"He would have hated me for even _thinking_ it." Her laugh was short and hollow. "He would have pulled me out of that water just to kill me himself, Esme, if he'd known what I did. He would have hated the act and he would have hated me for doing it, and even though I knew that, I did it anyways. Sometimes, when things are bad, I feel like I still might… and I _hate_ that, too."

"Your father could never hate you."

"Oh yes he could…"

"I don't think so."

Bella shook her head.

"A father's love is not conditional, Bella," said Esme. "No matter what he said or how he felt, he would have loved you until the end of time, if he could have. It wouldn't have mattered to him what you said or what you did— you were his baby, sweetheart, and you always will be. No matter how old you are or how tough things get, you were his baby and he would have loved you no matter what."

"Would he, though?"

"Your father was a good man, Bella," said Esme and though her words hurt the girl, she knew that it was a welcome pain. "He was kind, he was generous, and he loved you as deeply as any father could love his child. Don't ever doubt that… but I don't know that Charlie ever found himself in the same places as you have. I don't know if he's ever been there, in that hole, where the world is so dark that you can hardly see the light."

"It makes me feel weak."

"You're _not_ weak."

"There's no strength in giving up."

"You _haven't_ given up, Bella," said Esme. "You're here, in this place. In the dark with me, hiding from yet another danger. Your heart is beating and your soul is _living,_ and if that's not strength, then I don't know what is."

"Anyone can _live_, Esme…"

"Not everyone," she replied. "You're not the first to try and escape it. Carlisle tried, in his early days, though it did absolutely nothing to destroy him. He so hated what he'd become that he tried to rid the world of himself before he got the chance to thrive. I tried it too, after I lost my baby, and I would have succeeded had Carlisle not found me in time. But even so, sweetheart, I stand by what I said before. Everything we do, we do for love, and that includes you."

When those brown eyes fell shut, Esme pulled her girl close and once again relished the feel of that warm, hot cheek on her shoulder. Bella's arms had gone slack around her waist, her skin pebbled with goosebumps, but she did not argue back and Esme knew that she was listening.

"You're grieving," said Esme gently, and there was a small, shaky sigh. "You're grieving for the life you lost and the people that went with it. I'm sorry for that loss, darling— more sorry than you can know just now, I think— but it is that very grief that proves I'm right."

"Grief isn't love."

"Grief is _only_ love," returned Esme at once. "It's all the love we have leftover when the object of that love is gone. There can be no grief without love, just as there can be no love without a little grief. You miss your father because you loved him, just as you loved your mother and my son. To have that wrenched away was a cruel trick, I'll admit, but I hope that, with time, you'll come to see that there are more people in this world that can help to bridge the gap. I can never replace your mother, just as Carlisle cannot replace your father, but still I love you like my own, Bella, and perhaps, in time, you might feel the same."

"I _do_ love you."

"I know you do…"

"I just don't always show it."

"You do the best you can."

"I'm sorry if I've hurt you."

"You haven't."

"I think I have…"

"Never with malice," Esme said. "Never with anger."

"No…"

"No," agreed Esme. "Don't worry about me, Bella. Before dawn, the world will be right again, and once it is, we can begin to make our plans."

"Plans?"

"We have much to do, and there is so much still to say," said Esme. "After all of this is settled, we can decide what comes next. We can plan our next move, decide on our next house, and then we can start fresh and figure this out together. We just have to get through this night first, and once we know where we stand we'll be able to move forward."

"Move forward?"

"Together, Bella," Esme said, and in her arms Bella shivered. "As a family, darling. Always as a family."

"Okay."

"Don't worry about it now," she advised. "Don't worry about anything else just now. I know it's cold, and I know it's dark, but if you just sit here with me and let me be with you, it won't be long before the world is right again."

And so they sat together, Esme and her girl, in the darkness of that bathroom as the night grew long around them and the storm dragged on outside. This was the way it should be, Esme knew— calm, and serene— and though their troubles were not even remotely sorted, there was a sense of purpose and a powerful determination that held within it all the promises of a life yet to be lived. This was not the end for them— there would be other days, and better ones— and as the quiet dragged and they listened to the silence, Esme relished every second of it and did not let go.

But even here, in the quiet safety of her home, this ease could not last forever. Esme drew her strength from the feel of that figure in her arms— that warm, living, breathing girl who had come to mean so much— and the instant she heard the sound from the edge of the yard outside, she felt her body stiffen. Bella felt it too, though she did not know the reason why, and Esme felt the stuttering breath against her shoulder, the sudden reflexive squeeze of those arms.

"Esme?"

"Shhh…"

"What's wrong?"

"Quiet for just a moment, darling…"

The girl obeyed, and Esme strained herself to listen.

In the yard, in the northeast corner that led into the deepest recess of woods, Esme heard the sound again like crunching snow. The sound was wet and cold, like cracking ice and dirty slush, and when it came another time, and then again, she knew at once that something had changed.

"What, Esme?"

"Footsteps," she whispered, and when the girl tried to speak again Esme put a finger to her lips to stop her. "Quiet now. I don't want to be heard."

"It might be…"

"Hush. It might be any of our own, or someone else entirely. There is no way to know, just yet."

Not without opening the door, and that was the very last thing that Esme wanted to do.

"Shhh…"

There was a tap, and then a knock, and then an almighty bang on the metal panels of the house, and the noise resonated so forcefully that it made Bella jump.

"It's alright…"

Another bang, this time with a little squeak and an angry hiss from the snowy yard.

"What…?"

"I'm not sure."

"Esme?"

"Shush, Bella."

"I…"

"_Quiet!"_

In an instant the girl fell still, and Esme could feel the tension rolling off of her in waves. The chin pressed to her shoulder was quivering, the sudden force of her arms crushing, and so when Esme craned her neck to hear, she waited only a moment for the sound to repeat.

Those footsteps in the snow started up again and it was a distinct noise that she knew well, and they ran at such an alarming pace before there was another knock, and a hiss.

"Shhh." Esme pressed her finger to the girl's lips again and at once, she pursed them shut. Her voice made no sound— she did not call or cry out— but there was nothing that Esme could do to stop the pounding of her heart. Instead Esme listened— for a voice or a call that might reveal the source of the sound— and when none came, she felt her hackles rise.

From downstairs at the barricaded front entrance, Esme heard the footsteps approach again. The panels were strong— they had been installed, after all, with a threat like this in mind— but they had never been so sorely tested. She listened in tense silence as those footsteps moved around the perimeter of the house once more, moving slowly clockwise to find a weak spot, and when they found none, this careful circling was followed by another echoing, clamorous _bang._

Bella's yelp was only just stifled and at once, Esme was on her.

"Shhh…"

The sound rang out again, and this time, Esme let out a hiss.

_It wasn't going to hold._

In the instant that the next noise came this thought seemed to hit her with a sudden blinding force, and she felt that old terror welling up in her again, though she tried to tamp it down. The girl was paralyzed with fear, her wide eyes glassy and panicked, and though Esme kept herself as calm and collected as she could, she knew that whatever was on the other end of that noise would be upon them just as soon as that metal grate failed.

There was a another bang then, and then a another still, and then they came in such quick succession that it seemed to shake the whole house. She could hear the metal squeaking, slowly buckling under the force of those violent, inhuman blows, and with each new noise came a rising, searing dread. The sound echoed like a gong, filling the house with its noise, and when the metal splintered with a screech and a crack, Esme heard the dreadful overflow of terror from the girl in her arms. There was no hope for it— even muffled by her shirt, the sound of tears was abundant in the quiet room, and Esme knew that the enemy downstairs could hear them too. There was no hiding it— Bella could not stop them any better than Esme could— and Esme knew that they would be discovered, that they would be _found… _

From downstairs there was another crash— this time of breaking glass and splintering wood— and it was loud enough that Bella started and Esme smelled the salty brine of tears increase. She could hear the hiss of triumph, gloating and proud, and there were footsteps on the floor before there was a deep inhale and a giggle, and Esme took a step forward.

"Esme?"

The whisper, so tearful and confused, made Esme's heart constrict as she heard the rush of feet on the stairs. She could smell the enemy now— that familiar sickly sweetness and an acrid stench of burning— and then the bedroom door was flung open, banging noisily against the wall.

When Bella's fingers scrabbled, grabbing clumsily at Esme's sleeve in the darkness, Esme pressed a kiss to those trembling, cold knuckles.

"All will be well, darling," she said again, and then she turned, pushing the girl back into the corner by the tub. She went without complaint, curling in on herself to hide. "I promise, honey. Everything will be fine."

From the bedroom just beyond the feeble wooden door, there was a peal of wild, savage laughter.

* * *

The world was burning. He could feel it on his face, taste it in the air. His hands were black with the ash of the dead. His face, bone-white and furious, was scarred by the slash of violence. Men were screaming. Trees were crashing. Pyres were crackling, and wind was howling, but all the while, the world was burning.

The flames roared like bellows and the frantic screams of the enemy echoed between the trees in the hazy, stormy night. Splintering bone came like cracking gunfire and all around him, the world seemed to rumble with the noise of it. The din was outrageous, made up of howling wind and the sound of violence, and as Jasper stood atop a boulder in the center of the field, he took stock of what they had done.

All around him, Jasper saw carnage. The field, green with new growth just last week, was a boggy mire of snow and soot. The earth beneath was churned to a muddy pulp— there would be nothing living here by the time the snow melted, and after the fires had burned down to smoky grey ash, the ground would be ruined. Already the air was choked— he could taste the flames with every breath he drew— and the wintry night had grown too hot with the raging infernos that burned in sporadic heaps throughout the clearing. He could see nothing through the fog, could _feel_ nothing but the juxtaposition of that blistering heat and the nipping, icy cold of the wind, both so strong that they stung. Behind him, he could hear Alice's victory in the rending of flesh and the terrible, echoing crack of a severed neck. Before him, shouting in the din and lost in the fog, he could hear his brother's failure and at once, Jasper was on the move.

He ran like a mad thing, single-minded in his determination as he followed the sound of that struggle, and he leapt like a cat through the smoke and the fog. All around him came the hissing threat of the enemy, the snapping jowls and rolling eyes of the abominations the woman had created. They were drawn to the flames like moths and at the same time repulsed by the heat, but beyond that, they knew nothing but violence and devastation.

In the instant that he saw her, Jasper threw the newborn from Emmett's back with a ferocious leap that sent them tumbling through the muck and the filth. He grappled with her for only a moment, feeling her sharp fingers on his face, her teeth in his arm, but in the next instant he had prevailed, and he threw a mass of shimmering, granite-hard flesh into the fire to the west. She screamed before she burned, and with his gift that was all too telling Jasper felt her terror, but it did not last long before it was blotted out by fire, burning away to float far above him to the clouded, wintry sky.

Hell. If Jasper had ever wondered what it would be like, he knew now that it would look like this. Like pages of Dante brought to life in this terrible final act, it was fire and brimstone in a drama that he had not wanted, a play that he had not written. It was like a scene from the _Inferno_, or a reckless, hateful war, and he was at once repulsed by the violence of it, and altogether proud of the work that they had done.

The enemy had come with numbers— numbers that his family did not have— but they had not come with discipline or determination. They had come with savage need— a bloodlust so long denied that it had driven them all mad— and with no memories but those of hatred and of pain. There were no bonds of family here— not even the communal, beneficial bond of _coven—_ and it showed in their assault, their technique. Jasper had spent most of his life training newborns just like these for jobs just as ugly and cruel. He had trained them for violence. He had trained them to _consume._ He had trained them to seek, and claim, and destroy, because that's what he was good at, and that was what had been _needed._

He knew shoddy training when he saw it, and for all their juvenile ferocity, Jasper knew that this would be a fight that his family would win. They would not fall to the likes of this— would not succumb to this ragtag team of misplaced souls— and he would not let his human sister fall to them, either. These newborns were strong but they had no finesse, and as Jasper turned to watch his family's fight, he knew that he had done right by them. His training had done exactly what he had hoped— they knew how to move, and they knew how to grapple, and as he watched their opponents dwindle, he knew that they would triumph before the end.

There was shouting. There was kicking. There was biting, and slapping, and tearing, and though Jasper felt it, the terror and the pain, he was numb, and he worked with a methodical calculation that served him well. He sought, he hunted, he leapt, and he bit, just as he'd taught his family to do, and when he felt those bodies crumble beneath his capable and unyielding hands, there was only the grimmest satisfaction. It had been so long since he had killed— so long since had faced off with any of his own kind in such a violent display of temper and outrage— but it was not a skill that was soon forgotten. His muscles knew what to do almost without thought, and by the time they had only one fighting fiend left, his face was bright with a righteous, burning anger.

The creature watched him, black eyes rolling as he scrambled back on hands and knees towards the trees, where he would find no reprieve and no consolation. Jasper smelled the fear as strongly as he felt it— it was bitter, and it was cold— and when he caught the boy, no older than twenty, he felt a prickle of conscience.

"Jasper…"

Edward's call went unanswered and without so much as a word Jasper had tossed the flailing pieces of that final beast into the fire, where they popped, and sizzled, and cracked. He felt it the moment that life was snuffed, and once he could no longer sense the agonized terror or the brilliant, scarlet rage, he let his shoulders sink as he took stock again of the damage they had done.

Filthy but triumphant, his family stood scattered around the clearing in a loose and shaky circle. Rosalie was gleaming, lovely even now, and she watched the brilliant violet flames with a peculiar brightness that made Jasper frown. Emmett stood beside her nursing a deep and seeping bite on his forearm he'd gained when he lost his focus for the barest of moments. Carlisle was the furthest away, hovering near the edge of the trees with a face like thunder, and Alice, sunk to her ankles in mud, only had eyes for him. Edward was nearer still, his gaze gleaming with a mingling delight and concern, but Jasper refused to acknowledge that worry for what it really was, and he looked away.

Of all his family, Jasper knew that it was Edward who came the closest to understanding what it was like for him to live in his own skin. It was Edward who understood the finer details of Jasper's gift, and Edward who knew the horror of the kill when your prey was pleading, begging for life.

"How many?" he asked, and at once, the tallies came in. Twenty two, per his count, and there was enough smoke still choking the air to prove it.

"And the woman?" Edward's voice rang sharp and clear. "Who got the woman?"

There was silence.

Like children in a classroom who were asked a question that none of them could answer, Jasper watched with mounting fury as heads swivelled from side to side. Rosalie was scowling, her eyes locked accusingly on Emmett, but Emmett hardly noticed her at all as he stared askance at Jasper. On the far side of the clearing Carlisle froze, his eyes roaming sadly over the smouldering piles of ash, and most menacing of all was Edward, his eyes locked on Jasper with such a malignant ferocity that Jasper felt his own temper piqued. Edward watched him for the barest of moments, his black eyes furious, and when Jasper gave no answer he snarled, turning his back on all of them.

"She can't be far…" Emmett's tone was reasonable, almost _pleading_.

"She'll be halfway to Canada," snapped Edward. "If she's got any sense at all, she'll be long gone by now."

"She was here," said Rosalie with uncharacteristic bite. "You can still smell her, even now. She was _here_, Edward…"

"That does not serve us now."

"We might be able to…"

"We won't."

It was Alice who shot him a glare.

"I'll go," she said. "Jasper too. We'll track her as far as we can…"

"The snow will make it difficult."

"But not impossible," said Alice and there was a finality, a decisiveness, that made him nod. "Never impossible. We'll find her, or at least we'll find where she might be hiding."

"Yes…"

"We'll need to travel," said Carlisle, and at once, all attention was on him. "Once we're back at the house, we'll need to make our plans."

There was no argument.

"Where?"

"I don't know… we have friends up north and across the pond. I don't doubt that any of them would rise to our aid if we ask for it."

"They won't agree to fight."

"They won't have to," said Carlisle. "I think we've proven ourselves more than capable here. The most we might ask is their attention, and their care."

"Will they give it?" asked Edward. "Will they give you their words, Carlisle?"

"I think they will…"

"You need to _know."_

"Mind yourself," said Emmett sharply and at once, Edward's ferocious gaze had shifted. Jasper could taste the tension in every breath. "It will do you no good to antagonize…"

Edward hissed, turning his back on them again.

"We should—"

But neither then, nor any time thereafter, would they find out just what it was that Edward thought that they should do. Edward's words were cut short, his thought lost as they wheeled around as one, ears trained for the source of that strange and eerie sound.

In the distance beyond the trees to the north, close enough to hear now that the wind had died down, Jasper heard the odd metallic crunching that rang through the trees. It came upon them slowly, at first low and quiet, and then altogether noisy and obtrusive, and as Jasper craned his neck to hear, he became aware of two things at once.

The first was that the sound, whatever it was, was coming from the direction of the house where his mother and his sister were hiding, alone. The second made his nostrils flare, his eyes blackening with fury in hardly a second, and the moment he made sense of it, Edward did too.

On the cold, wintry air, carrying in on the breeze, was the sickly scent of the enemy mingled with the poignant, potent smell of blood.

* * *

That laugh made Esme's heart grow cold.

In the darkness of the washroom, with the trembling girl huddled at her back, Esme listened again to the riotous, raucous laughter and felt her jaw clench, her body poised to strike.

"I can hear you in there…" taunted Victoria, and behind her, Esme heard Bella's quiet panic. "I can hear you, darling, hiding in there…"

There was a bang on the door, so noisy this time that it made Bella yelp, and though it shook on its hinges, it did not fall. Esme watched it rattle, holding out her hand to keep it closed, and all at once there came a thunderous, deafening crash. In a shower of wood, Esme saw that door dissolve into a riot of splinters like toothpicks. Her hand did nothing to stop it and as the pieces hit the floor, the walls, the tub, and the girl, Esme felt her body tense and she sprung herself forward to strike.

Her target was clear, her fiery red hair shining like a beacon in the dark. In an instant, the pair were away, tumbling head over heels through the bedroom like cats, and though they hit the wall and shattered a window, Esme latched her fingers to that cold, hard flesh, and she did not let go. She had one goal, and one goal only— and that was to keep this creature away from Bella.

Esme was not a fighter. She was not inclined towards violence nor did she default to aggression, but there was something in her that awoke at the sight of that smug and hateful face. Above her, the enemy loomed, her fingers grabbing, snatching, gouging, and gripping, and Esme watched the frantic glee in her eye, the savage pleasure of the hunt. Her face was alight with the glow of anticipation, her teeth bared in a terrible display of dominance, and her eyes, rimmed by a deep, blood-red ring, were as black as pitch so that the pupils were nearly indistinguishable from the irises. She looked deranged, like a madman on the prowl, and as Esme fought viciously for the upper hand, she managed to flip herself over.

Straddling the woman was a feat in itself, and though Esme was bigger, the enemy was stronger. Victoria had the benefit of time on her side, and a wily, unruly lust for blood, and both of these combined made Esme the weaker fighter. She could feel it in the muscle— could feel the incredible strength and stamina of the creature beneath her— and when Victoria freed one of her slender, white arms, Esme felt the blow like the crack of a whip. Victoria's fist connected with her face, sending her hurtling to the other end of the room. Pain bloomed down her face from her temple to her neck, and though she could feel the broken skin on the apple of her cheek, in the next instant, it was knitted. The sting of it shocked her— never before had she felt anything to rival it— but when she saw Victoria take first one step, and then another, towards that ruined bathroom door, Esme knew she had to act.

She sprinted like a mad thing, hurtling recklessly towards that desperate assailant. She could hear Bella's weeping from inside the bathroom but she could hardly pause to listen, and when she once again tackled the woman to the ground, Esme saw the flicker of anger on that pretty, vivacious face.

There was a second blow, and then a third before Esme brought her own hand up to strike. Her arm landed hard enough to throw the woman off of her again, and when she kicked out her foot, instead, she sent her opponent through a wall to careen down the stairs. Esme followed like a ghost, landing on the balls of her feet at the base of the staircase, and when she was rushed they tumbled again, this time destroying the piano, the kitchen island, and the tall, french doors that led to the back yard.

"She is _mine!" _snarled Victoria, and Esme felt the shocking sting of teeth on her arm. She slapped and kicked to get away. "She is _mine!"_

In an instant, the woman was away up the stairs.

With her heart in her throat, nursing that dreadful, venomous sting in her arm, Esme scrambled up the stairs in a fraction of a second. She could hear the screams— one of triumph, and one of terror— and when she yanked the creature back from where she skulked by that broken bathroom door, the pair of them tumbled again until they fell into the middle of the hard, wooden floor. Esme felt the weight of her, so heavy and so strong, and when that desperate hand came up to wrap around her own, white throat, she knew then that she would lose.

She kicked. She screamed. She punched, and scratched, and writhed, but nothing she did, and nothing she said would dislodge the enemy from her throat. She could see that wild face alight with the glow of impending victory, and she could hear the gloating hiss that escaped through her teeth. The hand squeezed tighter and tighter, cutting off her air and cracking the delicate skin at the base of her throat, and then she felt it, like a thousand cutting knives, as her neck began to give way.

"I _win,"_ hissed Victoria, and over the rushing anger in her heart and her soul, Esme heard her delight. "I've_ won,_ you stupid cow… she is _mine!"_

This would be the end for her— and it would be the end for _Bella. _It would be the last of them— dying together, in the home they both had loved. Her child, succumbing to the threat from which Esme had failed to protect her, and she, herself, lost in the struggle to keep the girl safe. She thought of Carlisle, then, and the grief that he would feel, and of_ Edward_, whose rage would be incandescent when he found out what this woman had done...

The hand bore down harder and Esme scrabbled, gouging that hard, smooth skin so forcefully that she felt her own fingernails snap under the pressure. She felt the divots in the skin, heard the angry, hissing titter of protest, and she waited for it, the slight release of that pressure, before she made her final, desperate move.

Her fingernails sunk deep and she bent her head to bite the hand that held her. She felt the flesh part between her teeth, tasted the odd sweetness of venom on her tongue, and in that instant the fingers loosened, though only just, and Esme used her feet to kick herself up. In a clatter of metal and a shattering of glass, she felt herself propelled through the broken bedroom window with a sound like a cannon, and then she was flying, headlong, through the snow-covered yard.

She came to rest in the trees, in a long, deep trench that her body had carved in the frozen earth. Her head was ringing from the force of the blow, her arm stinging from the oozing, cloying bite, but she was back on her feet in an instant, her heart in her throat. Her body would heal— even the deepest bites, with time, would disappear— and it was not for herself that she feared, not for herself that she felt such terrible, agonizing _worry._

For up in the house, away from all the windows, Esme heard the briefest sound of a struggle before there was a loud and piercing scream.

"No!"

Running up as fast as her legs could carry her, Esme vaulted up the stairs in record time. In the ruined bedroom, with furniture upended and walls and doors destroyed, she launched herself into that bathroom where she saw, with a terrible, sinking dread, the very sight that she had been so desperate to prevent, the sight that they had all fought so hard to avoid.

They were there together, Victoria and the girl, and one was laughing as the other screamed. Victoria held Bella by the hair, her head snapped back at a terrible angle, and from the place where her teeth had sunk into the girl's soft, white throat, she laughed. Esme could see the sickening bob of her throat, the smallest trickle of sweet, fragrant blood that escaped the demon's lips, and she hardly had time at all to process what she saw before Bella let out another shriek and her feet began to kick.

Esme saw red.

In half a second, Victoria was tossed away, a spray of blood spattering the broken mirror as she was shoved back. Her laughter was gleeful— Esme could see the delighted victory in her gaze, the gloating, taunting joy at her success, and she hated her for it. Her hate made her angry, and her anger made her strong, and with a snarl of furious, tangible _rage, _she was running again.

Esme grabbed the creature by the throat and she gouged her fingers in its eyes, and with a wild shout and an angry cry, they were gone. They tumbled headlong across the bedroom and propelled through that open window, landing with a terrible crash in the yard outside/

Esme could feel the biting teeth at her throat and her neck, but somehow, with that child's blood on her face and her hands, she could hardly bring herself to notice. The sting was fierce, and it was cold, but as she slammed her fist over and over into that smug, laughing face, she relished the feel of release, the crumbling of bone. She knew it would not be enough— it would never be enough, unless she ended it outright— and so when she managed to dive and sink her teeth deep into that long, slender neck, she did not hesitate.

She had never done it before, had never severed a head from its body, and as she pressed her jaws together and felt the parting of flesh, she seemed to know instinctively what to do. First, there was the sweetness, and then came the bitter, and though weakening hands slammed fists against her back to haul her off, she would not be moved. In an instant she had achieved her goal, and with a terrible roar of savage grief, she felt the separation of the flesh and the enemy's head came away in her hand like a grotesque and hateful trophy.

On the ground the body writhed, twitching and scrambling to reassemble itself. There could be no voice— not without a mouth— and Esme hardly spared any of a glance before she threw the pieces far enough away and reached into her pocket for the small gas lighter Jasper had pressed on her before the fight. Esme had thought it silly before but she was grateful for it now, and when the aggressor went up in flames, Esme watched the acrid smoke with relish.

The whole ordeal— her success, the burning, and the smoke— took hardly a minute, and once the fire had billowed into a vivid purple haze, there was another scream from the upper floor of the house.

Like a scene from a disaster reel, the room was in ruins. Glass littered the floor, the bed had been thrown partway through the far wall, and the wood of the floor, so pristinely polished, had been torn up in a great, long strip where Esme had been thrown to the floor. There were no lights left to use— the lamp had been twisted beyond recognition and the bulbs on the ceiling had been smashed to bits, and though the window was open there was no sun or moon to help her see. Esme did not need a light of course— she could see perfectly well without it— and from the darkness of the bathroom Esme could hear the frantic, racing heartbeat, and the piercing, agonized scream from the girl.

At once, Esme was kneeling beside her.

"Oh Bella…"

On the floor atop the broken tile she lay, her face upturned towards the ceiling and her body curled into a heap on the cracked marble floor. Her eyes were wide and staring, fixed on some vision that Esme could not see, and as her fingers scrabbled clumsily at her throat, Esme saw the odd set of her arm and the rapid swelling of her left ankle. There was a cut on her cheek— it looked like the skin had been torn— and already there was a swollen, ugly bruise around it— but of all these hurts, Esme honed in on the one that mattered most. Her arm was certainly broken, and her leg perhaps the same, but on her throat, bloody and raw, was an oblong wound with teeth marks embossed so deeply that Esme could make out each and every tooth, down to the molars. It leaked blood onto the floor— Esme could feel it soaking through her pants and sticking to her skin— but already the edges had begun to knit. Below her, the girl whimpered, and when Esme pressed her hand over the wound to stop the bleeding, she screeched.

Already the skin was cold, and Esme felt the sinking in her belly like a stone in a river. She had seen the change twice before— once for Rosalie, and the other for Emmett— and each time it started the same. The wound would sting, just like this one, and then the sting would spread, and by the time you figured out just what was happening it was too late, and then your body was on fire. Bella was writhing now, straining viciously against Esme's hold, and when the next scream came it was a desperate, horrid keening that shook her to her core.

"I'm sorry, Bella… I'm so, so sorry…"

"Esme…"

"I'm right here, darling. I'm so sorry…"

"No. No, no, no… Esme!"

"I know…"

She shrieked again.

**A/N: Okay. Two things.**

**First, thank you for all your patience. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you know all about the drawn out ordeal this chapter became. Shortly after I published Chapter 15, just as I was going to get started on THIS chapter, the keyboard on my laptop crapped out. Naturally, I was annoyed, and promptly brought it to the local repair shop to see what could be done. Because I live in Northern Ontario, Canada, we don't have an Apple Store to service Macbooks on site, so the repair guy tells me that the computer has to be sent away for new keyboard parts. As of this chapter, I STILL don't have my laptop back. It's my birthday this Friday, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll have it back by then. **

**Second thing (and slightly related): This chapter is one of the longest and most intense yet, and it was written entirely on my cell phone using Google Docs (hence the delay). If you find any typos, errors, or anything else that looks odd, please know that as soon as I get my computer back from the magical Apple headquarters down south, I'll be doing a more thorough edit and read through. You don't know how many times I almost chucked my phone in the garbage over the past three weeks (you can thank autocorrect for that particular violent urge), but it's here, it's finished (mostly), and it's out. I would consider this version a late-stage draft (not 100% ready for publication), but I got sick of waiting, which means that I know you're all sick of waiting.**

**Lots of love for all of you, and I hope you're all having a happy holiday season!**


	18. Change

**A/N: Please see the end for a note of explanation.**

**Chapter 17**

In the vastness of the world outside the darkness of the night abated into the early light of morning. Esme could see it above the trees as it spread across the sky like ink— a blood-red dawn with crimson fingers reaching, stretching ever closer with each tick of the mantle clock. The nighttime storm had passed, leaving in its wake a wintry-white silence that penetrated even here and she focused on it, her eyes closed against the budding, cold light. She could feel the stillness, could almost sense the sombre peace that had come with the springtime freeze, but beyond that peaceful exterior there were other sounds, closer and more pressing. Outside, the air was calm and still, as if the world itself had been tucked in beneath a blanket of new snow, but inside, where she was waiting in the aftermath of the fight, there was chaos.

"You need to move, Edward," she heard Carlisle murmur and she cracked her eyes open just a little. Around the living room, perched here and there on window sills and upturned furniture, her children sat with eyes downcast. "I need to see…"

"She can't hear me, Carlisle! Bella, love, open your eyes…"

"I'm not concerned with that."

"She's going to hurt herself…"

"Watch out."

"Carlisle!"

"Edward, _move."_

"Love, please… oh, Bella _please… _Carlisle, hold her!"

"Move!"

"Don't touch me!"

"_Edward!"_

"Bella…"

"Get out of my way!"

"Oh no…"

The impact of Carlisle's fist against Edward's hard, unyielding shoulder made Esme flinch, and though the room was already ruined, the crack against the floor where his body recoiled made Esme cringe. Carlisle's frustration was so strong and bitter that she could almost taste it. She could hear it in the angry rush of air between his teeth as he drew in a sharp, scolding breath, and again in the low, irritated rumble that warned their son away. His patience had grown thin and while she could not bring herself to return to that room either to soothe or to placate, she thought that if she closed her eyes, she would see the scene as if it were displayed before her in a painting. She could see the set of his jaw, so uncommonly stubborn and fixed that she wondered at Edward's audacity, and if she pictured him with enough detail, there would be fire in those coal-black eyes. He was furious, she knew, and stricken and sad, and all of this had melted together to make a tinderbox precisely poised for an ill-fated spark.

She felt the sizzle in her own bones— the ominous threat of violence, though the enemy had been neutralized— and she knew that her family felt it too when they heard Edward's answering moan. He seemed not to understand his father's direction, nor did he care to figure it out, and Esme listened with reluctant resignation as the chaos raged on. She could hear Edward's frantic scramble— the way he shot up from the broken floor where Carlisle had shoved him, how he ran on feet as light as air back to that dark, bloody bathroom— and when she heard her husband's angry hand slam down hard enough to break the tile, she knew that Carlisle had had enough.

"You are in my way, Edward, and so help me, if you do not move…"

"Carlisle, _please!"_

"Go!"

"I _won't."_

"If you do not, then I will move you." The threat was harsh and biting. "There is no time for foolishness, Edward, not if I'm to get these bones set…"

"Oh love…"

"Go and get him, Emmett," murmured Alice, who was perched on the edge of an upturned armchair with a face as dark as a thundercloud. "Before Carlisle throws him out."

Emmett, his face white with anger, was away without a word. They listened all together to the unparallelled noise, the terrible, horrible din that accompanied the Change.

With every passing minute, the sound grew more insufferable. With each new second, her voice rose in a terrifying crescendo. Esme had heard these sounds before— had heard the way those pleading words morphed into incoherent prattle, and when that prattle failed, turned instead to wordless screams. Limbs, broken and swollen, railed against the hard tile floor in a desperate bid to ease the sting. She could hear the scratching of those broken, weak fingernails in the grout between the tiles. There was new blood and old, all mingled together as she scraped her hands against the splinters, and though she heard Emmett's quick interference and the terrible _crack_ of a bone put right, the shrieking girl seemed to notice none of it.

"Pass me that brace," she heard her husband growl, and at once there came the sound of the broken door slamming and the quick, sharp roughness of velcro. "Just to keep it steady, until it knits…"

"Downstairs," grunted Emmett, and with less effort than Esme had expected, she heard him snatch his brother's arm to lead him away. "Just… go, Edward. Just go."

There was no complaint and at once, Esme let her head hang low.

Failure. Loathsome, black, undeniable failure glowed in Esme's heart like a simmering coal. It burned her, that scorching, hateful lump, and it struck her dumb, and when she turned her head away to hide her shame and her defeat, she heard a savage, angry hiss.

"It's _not_ your fault, Esme."

Esme did not reply.

"It's _not,"_ Jasper insisted, and when she felt his hand, squeezing sharply over a fresh, seeping bite, she did not pull away. "This won't help anything now. What's done is done. There's no point dwelling on it any further."

Oh, but there _was._

In the minutes— yes, mere _minutes— _that had passed, Esme felt as if she'd aged a lifetime. The memory of the fight was burned in her mind like an etching on glass, and the sound of Bella's first, terrible scream was recorded forever in her memory. She could see the creature's savage face— that same face that she had destroyed with such single-minded relish not an hour before— and if she dared to turn her head to peer through the far window, she knew she would see the simmering lilac ashes that marked the pyre. The enemy was dust, now, and may her soul be damned to hell, but it seemed too feeble, somehow _not enough._

She _had_ failed, and that was the plain and simple truth of it. She had sent Edward on to fight, had traded his able protection for her own feeble guardianship, and in the end, it had not been enough. _She_ had not been enough, and the shame of it was heavy.

"You_ did not do this,"_ growled Jasper again, and this time, Alice peered up with consternation. "You did not _fail_, Esme… and even if you did, we all share in it."

"You did your job."

"Obviously not." There was a laugh, short and shallow, and it sent a shiver down her spine. "Obviously I did _not_ do my job. None of us did, in the end."

"I was supposed to prevent this."

"_We_ were supposed to prevent it," said Rosalie. She stood by the window, her arms folded tightly over her chest. "_We_ were, Esme… you may not have been able to stop her, but had we done what we'd set out to do, she would never have made to you in the first place."

Esme said nothing.

"We _all_ failed," she continued, "and we're going to have to find a way to live with that."

"_She's_ going to have to find a way to live with it," Esme shot back, and at once, as if on cue, there was another crack of bone and a shrill, grating shriek. "We'll go on, just as we always have. It's _she_ who will have to figure out a way to live with it."

* * *

In the stillness of the house, Emmett stood motionless in the broken, ragged doorway.

In what had once been the bedroom where his sister had convalesced, there was now instead a great and terrible ruin steeped in the scent of blood and tainted by the bitter tang of fear. Emmett had watched this house as it was built— had overseen the laying of these floors, the construction of its rooms and peaks. He had chosen the lumber, had laid the foundation deep in the ground with his own two hands. He had seen these pieces before, each wall, floorboard, and joist, but as he stared at them now, taking in the wreck and the ruin, he was not in awe. There was no love here as there had been the first time he'd laid hands on the plaster and the wood— not in this room, which could hardly be called a room at all— and he took it all in with a sigh, his gaze roving over every splinter and crack.

The ornate window on the western wall had been shattered by the force of Esme's battle with the enemy. The delicate hardwood, which had been refinished just two years prior, was torn up in a great strip down the center of the room. The room was dusty with plaster from where bodies and fists had cut through walls like a knife through butter, and what was left of the floorboards were littered with glass from shattered windows and bulbs. The bed was in pieces, thrown haphazardly to one side, and the dresser was upended with its contents strewn and ruined. Not one surface was unmarked, not one item undisturbed, but beyond this superficial damage, just behind him and reeking of violence, was the bathroom, with its sink cracked in half, its marble tile shattered, and a thick, dark stain that had spread across the floor.

He could see the pattern of violence here as if he'd borne witness to it himself. He could see where the creature had come in, where her fists had made great fissures in the solid wood of the door. He could see the very spot where the hardest blow had landed, and he understood the severity of that force when he found splinters of wood lodged in the plaster of the ceiling twelve feet away. He imagined how she'd leapt, how she'd found her target and taken her chance while Esme lay sprawled in the yard, and he could see where her fist had cracked the sink. He could see where her knees had landed in two near-perfect circles on the broken tile floor, and where, with what must have felt like the greatest of triumphs, she'd made her mark, biting hard enough to leave an imprint of 32 perfect teeth on Bella's throat. Blood had flowed liberally from that wound and the smell of it pained him, but as he took in the great, sticky pool, and the fine red mist that had landed on the wall, he felt hot, sickening disgust well up in his chest.

He started with the bedroom, turning his back on the worst of the mess as he tried to gather his thoughts. Emmett could not sit idle— it did not suit him, and he did not quite know how— and though he knew that any of his family would have taken up this task with him had he asked, he thought it best that he work alone. There was nothing for him to do downstairs— only Esme and Edward remained behind, the former eaten up by guilt and the latter skulking at the foot of the stairs. His wife was gone, fled back into the trees with Jasper to clean up what was left of the mess they had made, and so too was his sister, gone to Seattle to make their arrangements. There would be questions, he knew, about Bella's absence, and even more speculation about the ruin of their house. There would be a fire once the screaming stopped, or perhaps a demolition, and before the town even knew that Bella was missing, the good doctor and his family would be long gone from Forks. They, as always, would disappear into obscurity, their names and faces lost to time until their lives would come full-circle and the charade would begin again.

The house would be lost, Emmett knew, for there could be no lingering evidence of the violence that had happened here. They would keep the land, perhaps rebuild when there was no one left in Forks to remember them, but it would not be this house. Not now that it had seen such terrible, reckless violence. Not now that it had been so wholly and violently _tainted._

But still, Emmett began to clean.

Though he knew it didn't matter, and it would make no difference in the end, he could do nothing in service to his family but tidy away the evidence of the night's brutality. He could not help Bella, who cried out from his parents' bedroom, and he could not soothe Esme, whose own guilt had consumed and enraged her. He could not placate Edward, who had been banned from the sickroom, and he could not assist his wife or brother, and so he did what little he _could _do, and it started with the window.

Shards of broken glass that clung to the frame were smoothed by his own, strong fingers before he nailed up boards to keep away the cold and damp. He swept the glass, piled the ruined flooring off to one side, and he disassembled the bed, which was beyond repair. He righted the dresser, wiped away the plaster dust, and by the time he'd disposed of the debris and replaced the broken lights, it was all he could do to turn himself to that bathroom, from which the smell still emanated like a bad perfume.

He found the bleach in the kitchen, beneath the ruined countertop that had cracked beneath the force of a blow. He found rags there too, and an old silver bucket, and when he made it back to that bathroom he felt his rage run hot. The smell was still strong and he could taste it on the air, and in a furious temper he upended that bleach onto the shining white marble, not caring that it would mark or that the smell would turn so sour. The sticky, brown mess turned once more to liquid ruby and he brought his cloth down with a vengeance, and with a meticulous care that was not his norm, he ran that cloth over every inch of tile, grout, and wall until it gleamed white again, his nose burning from the smell of it.

He could not fix the sink. He could not fix the tile. He could not fix the wall— not without supplies— and he could not mend the window, but this, at least, he _could_ do. He could rid the house of the terrible smell and he could put the ruined bedroom somewhat to rights, and once that was done he was left again in silence, his face tight and his chest heaving.

His fingers reeked of bleach.

Turning away from the room was easier than turning towards it had been, and when he closed the door behind him with a trembling sigh, it felt right to latch it shut. At once, the smell was dissipated— he was grateful for that, at least— and he took a deep breath. In that same moment there came another sound, more frantic and more tremulous.

"No, darling.. You'll hurt yourself. Try to keep calm, Bella…"

There was a shuffling from the end of the corridor, a quick and urgent scuffle. Another shout, and then another louder still before a muffled thump and a defeated, keening cry.

"You'll hurt yourself," said Carlisle again. "Just relax, darling. All will be well… everything will be alright."

Emmett froze in the hallway, his eyes fixed on that closed, unmoving door, and he felt at once filled with a choking pity and a terrible, tremulous fury. Carlisle spoke softly and his words were gentle and kind, but there was no reasoning with the madness that had taken her, no way to reconcile the writhing agony with anything even remotely resembling _alright._

Before he could stop himself— before he even knew what he was doing— Emmett had made his way down that hallway and had turned the knob of the door, letting it swing open to reveal what he had often imagined, but had never _seen._

All he could do was stare.

In all his years, through each great span of experience and learning, Emmett had never before been privy to the violent details of the transformation. He had never witnessed the destruction, had never watched the contortions of muscle and bone, had never felt the savage, ruinous pull of limbs against their bindings as a body turned itself inside out. He had never heard the savage shrieks, the senseless, furious wailing that would do nothing to extinguish the fire. He had never watched as soft, supple, human flesh turned to granite-hard stone, had never heard the sizzling fight of blood and venom in every artery and vein. Human bodies clung to life even when their owners did not want it and there was no exception for the Change, no sudden release of vitality that would make the passage easy. It was the way of things, he knew, as he'd been told several times. It was _always_ the way of things— there was no hope of winning, no hope of humanity's triumph, and yet the fight would go on anyways until the venom won out. They were tenacious, those delicate and transient humans, but as Emmett gazed in shocked dismay at the scene on the bed, he had to wonder whether or not tenacity would be enough.

"Jesus." The word fell from his lips and made their father frown, his fingers clamped resolutely on her straining, thrashing arms. Beneath him she writhed, her eyes wide and terrified, and when she pulled against the hands that held her, Emmett was surprised to see that she had the power to move him. Already she was strengthening, muscle hardening over fragile human bones, and though Carlisle did not lose control, Emmett saw him redouble his grip as he focused on the butterfly wings of the pulse at her wrist.

"So soon?" Emmett asked, and Carlisle gave a short, stiff nod. "I didn't think it happened so quickly."

"It comes in stages," he said, and when he released only one of those pale, slender arms it shot out at once, raking fingers over the healed, oblong wound at her throat. Her nails drew blood, gouging deep enough to leave a scar, but Carlisle only tutted and pulled it away again, pressing a damp cloth to her neck stem the flow. On instinct Emmett held his breath, refusing to lose himself to the eternal, nagging thirst, but when he dared to breathe again he felt his nose wrinkle and Carlisle gave a short, hollow laugh.

"She won't tempt you now," he said, and Emmett took another step closer. "There is still blood, to be sure, but only for a little while longer."

"Yeah…"

"You can sit with us, if you'd like," said Carlisle, but Emmett could only stare. "There's nothing more for us to do now but wait."

"Wait," repeated Emmett and on the bed, the girl's back arched. Her feet kicked at the mattress, her blankets were thrown to the floor, and though she tried to move herself away from Carlisle's gentle touch, he pushed her back down before she could fall.

"How long, do you figure?"

"Three days," said Carlisle. "As is the norm. Maybe a little less, perhaps a little more."

"More?"

"Rosalie took three and a half," he admitted. "Esme almost four. You were the quickest— two and three quarters, if my memory serves."

"Why?"

"Severity of the injury," Carlisle replied. "That's my best guess, anyways. The more the venom has to fix, the longer the process takes. Yours were deep wounds, but they were only torn flesh and muscle. You'd lost a lot of blood and that was your real danger, but the rest of it healed quickly enough."

"Her leg…"

"Is set, and already healed," said Carlisle. "That's what I wanted to ensure earlier. The more I can do for her now, the less her body will have to do for itself and the shorter this process will be."

"And will it be like this? All three days?"

Carlisle sighed.

"More than likely," he replied. Softly, and with only mild hesitation, he smoothed his hand over her damp, pale forehead. The touch was gentle, his fingers cool and soothing, but the very feel of it sent her into another furious revolt and he pulled back with a hiss.

"Pressure," he said, though he did not release her hands. "Pressure is painful until the skin hardens."

Emmett looked away.

"Is there nothing you can do?" he asked, and he felt Carlisle's irritation in the hot, steely stare he received. "I only mean…"

"I know what you mean."

"I don't mean to offend," said Emmett at once, and when the girl's hand broke free again with nails poised to scratch, he reached out to relieve his father of this burden, at least. He caught her before her nails could reach, stopping yet another pointless bloodshed, and when he pinned her arm down to the bed as gently as he could he was surprised by the feel of her. Already her warmth had begun to fade, body heat succumbing to the cooling drip of venom, but there was a vibrant, frantic rush of life beneath his palm, in every capillary and cell. Bella had always fascinated him— her constant movement, her ever-changing colour and warmth— but this was something in a realm all its own and Emmett paused, surprised. He could feel her pulse as Carlisle did, that hammering heart forcing life and change, but already there was resistance. Her skin, while not yet firm, was smoother, and he could feel the threatening ripple of muscle that would soon outmatch his own. She pulled against him with startling force and he understood at once what had moved his father's grip, and only when he felt the threat of a break, the bone in her arm flexing further than it ought to, did he loosen his hold.

"You didn't offend me," said Carlisle and with a sigh, he sat up straighter. His hand did not leave her, not for even the barest of seconds, but when he reached over to the familiar black bag on the floor by his feet, Emmett saw a collection of empty vials and syringes. "I'm sorry. I suppose my temper is a little short."

"I know…"

Carlisle upended the bag on the end of the bed.

"Morphine, ketamine, propofol, fentanyl… none of it has done a thing," said Carlisle. "Believe me, I've tried. I tried with you, too."

"That was almost ninety years ago."

"It's a delicate balance," said Carlisle, "and one that is not easily struck. We've had so few opportunities to study the Change, and I still don't understand all of the mechanics."

"I know…"

"Pain comes in many forms," he continued, "and each of those has its own treatment. Inflammation, nerve pain, bone damage, organ failure… the list is endless. I have no way of knowing just what the source is at each stage and without knowing that, there is only so much I can do. I tried morphine, same as I did with you, but the venom burns it off as quickly as I can administer it. Fentanyl is much the same. Ketamine is given with a sedative, which I'd hoped might at least let her rest, but so far, no luck."

There was a moment of silence between them— even Bella, still pulling wildly against the hold they had on her, did not cry out— and when Carlisle spoke again, Emmett could hear his frustration.

"She's been given enough opiates and sedatives to kill her three times over," he said, "but still, nothing. Touch hurts her. The pressure of her own body on the bed hurts her. Every movement and every twitch _hurts her,_ and there's not a thing in the world that I can do about it."

"She'll be alright…"

"In three days," Carlisle sighed. "Three very long, very tiresome days. That is the only thing that makes this even the slightest bit bearable."

"I've never seen it before. The Change."

"I know. Neither has Alice, but I daresay you both _remember."_

Indeed, he did. He did not recall much from his human life— only the barest details of a house and a sparse outline of his family— but he _did_ recall the fury of the bite. He recalled the sting of it, as if liquid fire had set him ablaze, and he recalled the madness of it, too, the torment.

"Can she hear us?"

"Perhaps. By most accounts, it comes and goes."

"I don't remember hearing anything."

"And yet Esme says she heard almost everything," Carlisle sighed. "I suppose it's different every time. I like to think she can, even if she can't reply."

Emmett was not sure how it could be possible as he stared down at the broken, trembling creature in the bed. Her voice was raw with the noises she made, her face lightening to an eerie deathly white, though the flash of colour on her cheeks was still high. Her eyes saw nothing, in one moment closed and the next open so wide that he thought they might burst, the whites vividly red with the breaking of blood vessels. The very breath she drew seemed to serve no higher purpose than to fuel her cries, to give rise to the terrible, wrenching shrieks that were her only protest against the inferno. When she screamed it made his ears ring, and when he was forced to hold her hand a little tighter to stop her clawing at herself again, he thought he could hear her furious, frustrated rebuke. She thrashed against him, her strength growing but not yet enough to match his, and with a terrible jolt she pulled too hard and he felt the crack of bones between his fingers. He released her with a curse and a savage, terrified hiss, and though he was sure he'd felt the bones give, was sure he'd _heard_ the break with his own, able ears, she seemed not to notice. He watched in disbelief as her hand came up again to claw at her throat, the original bite marking searing point from whence her torment originated, and when she drew more blood Carlisle only sighed, carefully and softly pulling her broken fingers away.

"Jesus," said Emmett, though there was no rebuke, no admonishment from his father for this failure. "Jesus _Christ,_ Carlisle."

* * *

When she was just a little girl, almost too small to remember it at all, Bella had gone camping with her mother in the woods. It had been the beginning of autumn beneath a cloudless sky of crystal blue and they had walked together, a mother and her child, through the lonely wilds of northern California. The trees had fascinated her— Bella had always loved trees— and she had walked with her face to the sky, her eyes peeled wide to take in the colours.

Autumn had always been her favourite season, and never more so than when she saw the changing of the colours. Bella had been raised with trees, had grown up playing in their roots, and their branches, and their leaves, and she was fascinated by the shifts of autumn, the transformation from vivid, verdant green to the rusty reds and ochres that heralded the end of summer. Summer was a time for play— a time when the young could be foolish and the old could reminisce— and though she hated to mark the end of that joy, she looked forward to the chapter still to come. There was a change in the fall, a change that did not happen at any other time, and with that change came solace. She knew the winter would come soon and that when it did there would be nothing left but barren branches and rot, but still, she delighted in the colours, and the breezes, and the smells.

They walked together with their packs on their backs— Bella's filled with her pajamas and her bear, her mother's with their rations and their tent. Her water bottle was heavy— Bella could feel the weight of it pulling back against her shoulders as they moved— but she did not let it slow her, and it did not make her stop.

"Leaves are changing, Mama," she had said, and her mother had beamed her agreement. "That one's green."

"And there's another," Renee had laughed. She was always laughing, even when there was no joke. "What about that one there?"

"Yellow!"

"Good girl. Any red ones?"

Bella had scoured the forest floor.

They had laid their camp in a clearing, pitching their tent by a stream and making their fire near the treeline. They had frolicked in the water and fed peanuts to a chittering, fluffy squirrel. They had chopped wood for their fire, cooked their dinner on an iron pan, and had built a great castle of sticks and mud, christened by a large, brown leaf for a flag. They had tried fishing together, though they had caught nothing, and they had watched the wild birds, and by the time the sun had set and the fire had burned down to simmering coals, they had laid down together on a blanket outside their tent, peering through the canopy of leaves to the brilliant twinkle of the stars beyond.

"Find the spoon," her mother had said, and Bella had been so entranced that she'd hardly noticed her mother's yawn. "Find the dipper, baby, and wish him goodnight."

And so they lay, side by side together, as Bella whispered her greetings to the stars and Renee, her body curled up tight, fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Had Bella known then what she knew now, the mistake might not have been made. Had she known that the circle of stones was too close to the trees, she would not have turned her back. Had she understood the dangers of the flames, the reckless chaos in the lingering heat of the coals, she might never have let her guard down. Had she known that she would not be able to stop it, she might have made a different choice.

But she had known none of these things, and neither, it seemed, had her mother, and because of this foolishness Bella had watched the world burn.

It had started with a spark— just one, lonely little flare from a simmering blood-red coal deep in the heart of the dwindling campfire. She had heard it spit, had seen the flashing gleam from the corner of her eye as it rose, and wavered, and then rose some more before the wind picked up for the barest of moments and it blew, like a little dandelion seed, and collided with the trunk of an old, weather-beaten evergreen. She had not noticed the smoke at first. She had not noticed the smell. Only when there was another flash, brighter this time, and a arc of orange flame did she finally turn to see, and by the time she'd risen and cried out, the spark had grown far out her control.

Her mother had risen from her sleep with a jolt. She had shouted at Bella, though those words were lost to time, and Bella had simply stared, dumbstruck by the beauty of it and the brilliant, scarlet terror.

She remembered the heat, and the light that bore down on her from the crackling, glowing tree. She remembered how sharp her mother's fingers had been, how Renee's long nails had dug, sinking in to the baby-soft skin of her arm. She remembered the panic and she remembered the pull, and as they ran, stumbling blind and dumb through the undergrowth of the forest, she remembered the glow and the blistering rain of sparks and ash as the fire took another tree into its hellish, heated embrace. She remembered the frantic beat of her mother's heart, throbbing against her cheek as they ran out onto the road, and she remembered the shouting and the fear. She remembered her mother crying, trailing ashen fingers over her soot-stained face, and the shaken apologies, the quaking and terrified_ I love you. _The fire raged behind them, scorching the skin on the back of Bella's neck, but her mother's arms had held her, had protected her from the violence of it, and the danger.

As Bella replayed this memory she wondered if, perhaps, she'd gotten it wrong. Perhaps there had been no escape from the burning canopy of the trees. Perhaps there had been no road to run to. Perhaps they had fallen, and perhaps they had lost, and perhaps they had felt the bite of those flames after all. Perhaps she had died and this was her penance, and until the fire burned itself out there would be no reprieve for there was no one near enough to hear her scream.

She did not know where she was, though she felt sure that she ought to remember. She did not know the voices that spoke, did not understand the words or the cadence or the tone. She could make no sense of the sounds, could hear nothing but the fierce shouts that came from her own parched lips, for there was no comfort here, and the fire had grown too strong.

There was no light, though that night on the side of the interstate had been brilliant with its crimson glow. There was no sweet heartbeat against her cheek as her mother held her close. There were no tears, and there were no sweet words, and though she tried to shout, tried to scream that the trees were burning, she could not hear and she could not be heard, and so those voices would never _know._

The trees were burning, and so was she.

Down so deep that she could not reach it, Bella felt a ferocious heat like a sun as it burned her from within. There was acid in her blood, combustible gasoline in every vein and artery, and she felt the corrosion of her flesh and bones. She would be burned, and she would be melted, and she would be dust in the wind at dawn, and with each new burst of terrible, scorching heat, she felt the eruption of each porous cell like a supernova beneath her skin. They boiled, and they swelled, and they blew up into gaping black holes, and then the fire went deeper, leaving her to writhe, and to cry, and to beg.

Sometimes, when her words failed most keenly, Bella was sure that she felt fingers on her bubbling skin. She would feel them on her forehead, brushing furiously over the ruin of her face, or sometimes on her arms that throbbed and blazed. She did not like the touch— in fact, she pulled herself away— and though the fire cracked her bones and the fingers dug in deep, she could not find the words and so they could not know.

"Soon," the voices would say, and then there would be water, or a breath on the apple of her cheek. "Soon, darling. It will be over soon."

_Soon_, the voice promised, and she clung to that word with a fierce and desperate hope_. Soon, soon, soon._

* * *

"She's going to be beautiful."

_Beautiful._ The word reverberated off the walls like an echo.

"She was always beautiful, Alice."

"You know what I mean. Even for what we are, she's going to be lovely."

The second voice said nothing.

"I'm going to change her clothes," said the first,and Bella felt a quick, soft touch on her wrist. "She's torn up the sheets again and she could use a wash."

"Thank you."

"You should go."

"Not yet…"

"She deserves privacy, Edward."

"I know."

"It'll just be for a moment."

"In a minute."

"Don't make things difficult, please."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"She's only just calmed."

"I _know." _The first voice grew sharp before it muffled. "That's why I'm doing it now. Carlisle says there's no guarantee that she won't start up again."

There was movement, and a quiet shuffle of feet.

"Thank you." There was another touch, now, softer, and more tentative. She felt the pad of a finger on her cheek, burning white-hot, and when she let out a sound to protest, it disappeared at once.

"Work quickly."

"I will."

"Call me when you've finished."

"I will."

"Thank you, Alice."

"You don't need to thank me."

"No," said the second voice. "No. Perhaps I don't. But she can't, and so I'll say it for her until she can."

* * *

Her throat was burning.

In the ruin of the world where there was nothing more than ash and smoke, the girl knew nothing but the ache, felt nothing but the terrible scorch that ravaged her. There had been a man, she knew, and that man had known her. She'd had a name. She'd had a place. There had been a kindness done, though she could not remember what, and a terrible, grievous wrong, but as the fire took her mind, laying waste to it as it had to the rest of her, she could not remember.

There were no more voices. There were no more names. There were no more faces, or feelings, or sorrows because there was only the fire, and the ashes, and the smoke.

And her throat was burning.

She had wanted to die. She had wanted so desperately, so _urgently_ to die. She had wanted to close her eyes and she had wanted to sleep, but she had not imagined it like this, had not _understood_ it like this. She had not wanted it to hurt. She had not meant for it to sting. She had not meant for it to linger, or for the fire to drive her mad, but her throat was burning, and her mind was bare, and she could not remember her name, or her people, or her place.

She could not remember…

She could not remember.

She could not remember, but her throat was burning.

**A/N: A few things:**

**First, a big thank you must go out to everyone who has waited so patiently for this new chapter and for all of you lovely readers who have given me the time and space I need to get this story finished. I'm not sure you realize how important your kindness is, but when things get a little rough, it means the world.**

**Those of you who follow my Twitter feed already know this (and some of you might have guessed from some other notes on my older stories), but your girl struggles with a little something called ANXIETY. Those of you who are in the same boat know how miserable it can be, and how it can absolutely and completely shut you down. About four times per year (once per season), it seems to come on much more strongly than usual, and because of family stress (illness), financial/work-related stress (hello Ontario teacher strikes!) and the general ups and downs of life, it flared up quite badly after Christmas. I try to do the best I can no matter what's going on outside of my writing, but this time it got to me and I needed to take a break. I can't promise it won't happen again, as I'm almost positive that it will, but for those of you that care I CAN promise that there will be no stories left unfinished. I don't care how long it takes, or how many times I have to rewrite a chapter, whenever I'm able I will do my best to put out new content.**

**And now, on to the chapter...**

**Much like the neglected mental health line in New Moon that inspired this entire piece, I always took issue with the version of Bella's change that S. Meyer wrote in the books. The change is described as a terrible, almost violent transformation, and yet somehow Bella was able to break that rule too. I have SEVERAL strong opinions about the way the author builds up her world with rules and expectations, only to tear them down so as not to inconvenience her protagonists (for example: Bella is bitten but not changed; vampires can't have children but suddenly Edward can; all newborns except Bella are bloodthirsty and uncontrollable; humans pose a danger to the immortal world but yet Bella and Charlie are both allowed to know the secrets; the change is torture, except for Bella's, as she is calm and serene throughout). So once again, for my own satisfaction, I have tried to rectify one of those errors****. I thought a lot about what the change might look like, both from an inside and outside perspective, and I hope I was able to convey some of the helplessness that the family might feel (especially Carlisle, who cannot help, and Emmett who has never seen a change before), as well as the confusion and descent of Bella herself. Some of it might come off as confusing, but that's exactly how I intended it to be, because there is no way in hell that someone can undergo that kind of trauma and come out of it intact and unscathed.**

**Thanks again for reading. As always, let me know what you think and stay tuned for more!**


	19. Hunt

**A/N: I've got another song inspiration by Carlos Cipa for you. It's called "dark tree". It's soft, sweet, sad, and moody and I kept it on repeat the whole time I was writing. This guy might be my new favourite and a staple in my writing playlist.**

**Also two warnings: 1) This chapter may be triggering for those who are sensitive to suicide and 2) Please read this one carefully. It is intentionally disjointed and a little chaotic.**

**Chapter 18**

She woke with a fury in the budding light of day, and the bed beneath her rumbled with the force of the wind. In the ashes she waited, the fire burning low, and when that fire faded from a flame to a spark, and from a spark to a tingle, she twitched, and all at once the world came alive.

She heard sounds in ears that were too sensitive. There were odors that she could not place. There was a voice and it was speaking and there was a soft touch on her cheek, but the feel of it so shocked her that she gasped, and rose, and flew before she was blinded by a startling, brilliant white_. _Her feet touched wood, though she had been so sure that they had burned away. Her scorched hands touched a wall. Her tongue ran over teeth as sharp as razors, her ears were ringing with the noise of the world, and when she opened her eyes again, staring into the brilliant, heated white of day, there were prisms of dust making rainbows in the air.

There was no more fire. There was no more smoke. She was here, in this place, in a room she did not know, and _he_ was here, with her, his hand held out askance.

She could not remember what he was called. She could not remember what _she_ was called. She didn't know who she was, or where, or how she had come to be anything at all. She had a body, now, though she'd been sure that the fire had eaten it. She had a mind. She had a voice. The world was clear but her head was fuzzy and as she breathed one breath, and then another into her singed, blackened lungs, she felt the burn and it was delicious.

"I know it's overwhelming," said the voice and she matched it, just a moment too late, with the face that swam before her. He did not come close, keeping out of her reach entirely and she studied him, this mystery creature, committing all of him to memory.

"Just take it easy for a moment," he said. "It'll take time to come back."

"What?"

The man only smiled.

"Just… _be_ for a moment. I know it's strange."

Strange was not the word.

Beneath her feet, where her toes gouged the wood, she could feel every splinter and divot. She smoothed her soles over the imperfections, taking in every last bump and ridge, but she did not know how she did it, or why. There was no more pain to plague her, no more weakness to bind her. Her body was hard. Her skin was _cool. _Her hands, burned up in the fire, had healed to a pristine satin white and each fingernail was rounded, sculpted. At her back she felt the wall and the small variations in temperature as the sun outside shifted between the clouds, and there was moisture in the air— so much moisture that when she opened her mouth, some came in to wet her tongue. She could see the finest morsels of dust, every imperfection in the plaster and the wood, and as she stared into that whiteness, blinking away the spots, she saw that the white was not white at all, but a rainbow of colours that she could not name. She watched it as it rose, coming ever higher with the rising sun, and when the man spoke again, just a moment too late, she jumped, putting her body through the wall.

"I know it's different," he said and though the crack of plaster and sheetrock was loud, he didn't flinch. "I know you're confused."

She stared at him, perturbed.

"Do you remember where you are?"

She said nothing.

"Do you remember _who_ you are?"

This time, she frowned.

"It'll come back to you, in time," he said. "Bits and pieces, at least."

She stared at him, unblinking.

"I was burning."

He hung his head.

"You've changed, Bella," he said and this name, spoken so casually, gave her a visceral jolt. "I'm sorry sweetheart, but it's over now."

"Changed?"

"Yes."

"Changed into _what?"_

He fell silent, his lips pursed.

"Give it time," he said again. "Regain your bearings. It'll come back to you and when it does, I'll answer any questions you might have."

"I don't…" She stared at him, trying to place his face in the mire of the past. "I can't…"

"It's alright," he said again. "You know me, Bella. Deep down you _do. _And if you don't right now, you oughtn't worry because when the dust clears you will again. I'm sure of that."

"I'm not," she said and he smiled, though it was quick and rather weak. "I'm… sorry. I don't remember…"

"I'm Carlisle," he said and something stirred in her again. "It's Carlisle, love. You'll remember soon."

"I _don't_ remember."

"I know you don't."

"What…?"

He waited, patient and still.

"What _happened?"_

"The Change alters many things," said the man and Bella listened as closely as she could. "It takes a while for things to even out."

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"My throat hurts."

"I know, love."

"Why do you call me that?"

"Love?"

"Yes."

"Because I love you," he said and this, too, gave her pause. "Even if you remember nothing else at all, I hope that you'll at least remember _that."_

She closed her eyes, her mouth dry.

"My throat hurts."

"I know…"

"Why does it hurt?"

"Because you're thirsty." The word frightened her and she did not know why. "You'll feel better after you hunt."

"Hunt?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Come," said the man— said _Carlisle_— and when she took his hand, he squeezed. The pressure felt nice, though she did not reciprocate, and when he led her to the door, she followed.

The hallway was darker than the bedroom, panelled in soft, smooth wood, and as they walked in this new space, Bella ran her fingers over the boards. He moved slowly for her, letting her stop and stare at the marvellous swirls of colour in the knots, and though she felt a prick of something that might have been her conscience, she could not help herself. The hallway was long and wide— so long, in fact, that they hardly made their way anywhere at all— and though she could see up ahead where the wood of the wall was splintered and cracked it was not this that stole her attention, but the door.

It was a door like all the others in the hall, latched tight to keep her out, but she thought that if she focused hard enough she would remember _this_ door. She had touched it before, had _felt_ it before, had run her fingers over the wood and the knob before, and she reached again for it now…

But Carlisle's hand, so quick and so gentle, reached out to stop her and Bella froze, her mind reeling with possibility.

"Not yet, love," he said, but she did not listen. "Just come downstairs…"

At once, as if she'd appeared out of thin air, there was another body in the hall and this one was much smaller. Bella thought she knew _her_, too, though again, she could not place her. When two, slender arms came up around her neck she stiffened, and when she felt the soft press of lips on the apple of her cheek she froze, frowning.

"Not yet, please," whispered the girl and Bella continued to say nothing. "Not just yet. Maybe later."

"I know that room."

"I know you do," whispered the girl. "I know, honey, but please just _wait."_

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

"Alice?"

Carlisle hovered, his hand still outstretched. The name clicked in Bella's mind, fastening hard and strong to the girl in her arms, and it fell into place like another piece of the puzzle in her mind.

"Give is a minute, Carlisle," said Alice. "Just a moment, please, while we collect ourselves…"

"I'll be downstairs."

"Thank you."

Alice held her tight.

"I love you, Bella," she said and again the words made her falter. "I know you don't understand— not yet, anyways— but just know that I _do._"

"Okay."

"Come downstairs."

"I just want to see…"

"_Please_ come downstairs."

"I…"

Alice let her go.

"I'll show you myself, once you've hunted," she said and Bella frowned at her, perplexed. "I'll open the door myself, but please, let's hunt first."

"I just need to see…"

"Please?"

"No."

Bella pulled herself away.

"_Please_ Bella."

"I… not yet."

"It'll be there later."

"It's here _now."_

"We've all the time in the world."

"I need to _know."_

And before Alice could stop her— before she could catch those scrabbling hands or stop those strong, quick footsteps— Bella had flung the door open and stepped inside.

The room, which hovered somewhere on the fringes of her memory, had devolved into a ruin that she could not place, marked by violence she could not remember. It was not a room she knew— not the small, hot bedroom full of books and dolls she had occupied when she was a little girl, and not the rainy, moss-green room in which she had lived later on. It did not look like the burning room, where she had spent her days in hell, and it did not look like the hallway, but though she could not place it among the patchwork of memories that had survived the raging inferno she still thought that she _knew_ it, and it made her sad.

There were boards on the windows beyond which Bella could see the faint, eerie glow of the overcast dawn as it crept over the horizon on the other side of the house. She could smell the air outside through the gaps in the wood, rife with scents that told of spring, and if she focused carefully on that small, almost indiscernible point of brightness she could see the swaying green of leaves and spruce needles in the yard. The darkness did not thwart her— it did not dull any colour or blur the edges of her sight— and she gazed with quick, pristine clarity over the wreck and ruin, her mind racing to make it all make sense.

The floor, gouged and scratched, had been torn down to the joists in a great, long strip that ran diagonally from one corner to the other, ending at that broken window which held not even a shard of glass. The hardwood had splintered into great, sharp pieces that were piled carefully along the far wall, with some still lodged deep into the plaster where they'd struck. She could see where the walls had been knocked, where the uniform speckling of creamy paint had been marred by obtrusive, oblong dents and holes, and she could see where the furniture had been smashed— a dresser, now empty of clothes, lay on its side by the ruined floorboards and a bed of fine, glossy wood had been dismantled, its mattress pushed haphazardly into the closet.

She took it all in in the space of a breath and when she heard Alice sigh, she wheeled around.

"Come away, Bella," said Alice softly and though there was no malice there, no threat, Bella felt her hackles rise. "There's no need…"

"There's _every_ need." Her voice had gone low and angry. "There is _every _need, Alice. I…"

She turned around again to look it over once more.

The damning evidence of violence, which she could not recall, though she was sure she ought to, made something sinister boil up in her. She did not remember what had been said. She did not remember what had been_ done. _She remembered only the terror in her heart, so sharp and so bitter, and that horrendous, scorching burn…

The memory of the burning made a shiver course down her spine and she forced it back, turning instead to face the back wall. There was a sound from outside— the barest, briefest uprising of wind— and when it penetrated that gap in the wood on the window, filtering in like a light, airy stream, Bella felt her throat flare and she choked, her mouth watering and her nose stinging.

"Bella…"

She could smell it. She could _taste_ it. It was fragrant, and it was tainted, and it called to her, though it was _wrong…_

"Come away," said Alice sharply, though Bella barely heard her through her muffled ears. "Please, Bella…"

Her nostrils flared, taking in more of that delectable, burning scent, and she turned away towards the bathroom. She could see the mark on the floor— the etched burn of bleach on the cracked marble tile— and if she looked closely enough, focused hard enough, she could see the barest remnants of a dark stain in the grout...

Before Alice could stop her— before she could reach so much as a hand to pull her back— Bella was away from Alice's worry and engulfed in the blackness of the room. The smell was stronger here, both the good and the bad, and when she took a deep, purposeful breath she felt her throat erupt again and she wavered, peering down at the floor to find the source.

She _needed_ to find the source.

In the space of a single heartbeat— hardly more than a second— Bella became aware of three things. First, as the sting bloomed like a flower in her throat and her chest, there came another body into the bedroom— a larger one, and careful. It was a man, she saw, and he stood between herself and Alice, and when Alice reached around him to try and pull her back, he was quick to warn her off. They whispered to one another, though Bella hardly had the capacity to listen, and when he kissed her fingers as if in consolation Bella heard his name floating back to her in a dream. She recalled that name with a sudden triumph, though it did not last long, and when the smell overcame her once again she filed it away for later.

_Jasper._

The second thing she noticed was that the smell, which rose with such tantalizing temptation from the grout between the tiles, was an _old_ smell, and though she could not explain why, this fact infuriated and peeved her.

The third thing, which came on the coattails of her sudden temper, hit her when she rose from the floor, her teeth bared in savage fury. She wheeled around to face her keepers, to accuse them of she knew not what, but before she could there was a movement in the room that she had not noticed before. She stopped halfway through her turn, facing a wall she had ignored on her way in, and when she saw the eyes of the Other, brim full of a wild, untamable rage she paused, her breath hitching in her chest.

The face was on the wall, she saw, reflected in the dark through the chaos of a shattered mirror. She stared so fiercely, that creature of the night, and when Bella rose, her forehead pressing against the cold, sharp glass, she felt a jolt of recognition. She remembered that face, recalled its edges and its lines, and when she brought a finger up to trace the nose, the jaw, she felt herself at once enthralled and terribly, horribly frightened.

It looked like her, this girl from the beyond, and yet as she took in the curves and the textures, she saw that it did not. She recalled the face she'd known before the carnage— somewhat fuzzy, as most things seemed to be, but clear enough to see the differences. The girl had changed, evolved into something similar, but different, and she felt her temper rising again, her confusion coming to a head as she backed away, unable to take her eyes away from that broken, fractured face.

There was no blush on those paper-white cheeks and the freckles on her nose had disappeared into smooth, unblemished silk. The irises of her eyes, once a rich, chocolate brown, had transformed into a startling, vivid scarlet and they watched at her with an unblinking scrutiny. They were a little bigger than before, just a touch wider and a little more round, and they stared with such consternation that Bella had no choice but to stare back, perturbed. What roundness had remained in her face from childhood had been carved away. The bump on the bridge of her nose— nearly indiscernible to all but her— had been smoothed down. Her lips were fuller, her chin a little rounder, and as she tilted her head first to one side, and then the other, she felt a creeping, slinking dread sneak up her spine.

She shivered when that Wonderland creature grinned at her, baring white, perfect teeth that gleamed in the dark and she recoiled, turning her face away.

Just outside the bathroom, Jasper surveyed her with wary caution.

"Come on, darlin'," he said and he reached a hand out, holding it up between them. Bella glanced down at it, reeling. "Come away from that just now. That's right… you're alright."

But as she looked down at the hand that was riddled with crescent rainbows and jagged wounds, she could not bring herself to take it. She stared at that hand and then back again at his face and though he betrayed nothing, his face impassive and smooth, she thought she could see a flicker of hurt in the liquid gold of his eyes. It took her a moment to place those scars, to understand why they made her so wary, and though he did not move so much as an inch, neither did she. It was a long moment in that silence and she understood neither his silent question nor her own stubborn answer, but when it grew too quiet and the pause grew awkward, Alice spoke again.

"Come with me, Bella," she said and this time, Jasper did not hold her back when she reached around him, pushing his hand away. "It's alright. Come with me."

* * *

Beneath the green canopy of trees where she could barely see the sky, Alice held fast to that white, slender hand as they walked, slow and steady, into the belly of the forest. Beside her, walking as if in a trance, Bella hardly dared to breathe and Alice was full of righteous, scorching pity. The girl did not know them. She hardly knew _herself._ She knew only the thirst, and even _that_ she did not understand, and the world was so clear, and so bright, and so _loud._

"Deep breaths, Bella," she said and though the girl did not obey, neither did she scoff. "It'll settle soon. It won't be so bad once you've acclimated."

Her nose twitched and Alice held her tongue.

"Where are we going?"

"Into the woods," Alice replied. "To hunt."

"To hunt _what?"_

"Whatever we find."

Bella stared at the ground, her brow furrowed.

"What is it, Bella?"

"Nothing," she replied. "Nothing…"

"You'll feel better when you've fed."

"Have I done this before?"

"No," replied Alice. "Not like this, anyway."

"My throat hurts."

"I know."

"Why does it hurt?"

"Carlisle already told you."

"I don't understand…"

"I know you don't." Alice paused her walk, squeezing that hand in hers. "I know, honey, and I'm sorry. Just trust me for a little while and let me show you."

"What are we doing?"

"Hunting."

"I don't know how," she replied and Alice eyed her carefully.

"It's instinct," said Alice gently. "No one can really_ teach_ you…"

"Not for me."

"It is now," she replied and when the wind picked up again, carrying with it a rich array of scents from the forest, she stiffened.

"Close your eyes," said Alice and though Bella frowned at her, she obeyed. "Just breathe."

Exaggerated and impatient, she obeyed again.

"What do you smell?"

"I don't know."

"Think about it."

"Alice…"

"Just _try,_ please," she said and though her nose wrinkled, Bella fell silent. "Take another breath. Pay attention this time."

When she inhaled, Alice breathed with her.

"What do you smell now?"

Bella paused, biting her lip.

"Trees," she said. "Pine._ You."_

"Good. What else?"

"Mildew. _Fire. _And…"

"And?"

"I don't know what it is."

Inhaling again as the wind picked up, Alice caught the scent that Bella had noticed, breaking into a wry grin. Alice steered her east, taking her hand again as she pulled her downwind, and when she let her go, Bella stiffened. Alice saw the change in a fraction of a second— saw how that calm uncertainty morphed into sudden, savage want— and when the wind blew again, bringing that scent down from the hills, Bella turned to her with wild, delectable anticipation. Those eyes startled Alice, ruby red darkening to deepest black, and when she breathed again her knees bent as if she were readying herself to spring.

"It's elk," said Alice, though she was not sure that Bella could hear her. "About a mile in. Just keep downwind, and…"

Bella was off before Alice could finish.

She did not see the hunt as Bella tore through the trees, vanishing between the trunks like a ghost. She did not see the violence or the chaos. Bella was silent as she moved, bare feet springing over leaves and branches and when she came upon her target, about a mile ahead of Alice who was slower, Alice heard the impact. She knew the sound of victory, the quick and frightened yelp of the animal's final fight, and she ran on, forcing her feet to go just a little faster. She smelled the blood when it spilled on the ground, mastering her own impulses and desires, and she followed that smell, the soft sounds of her sister's triumph, until she came upon the clearing where the girl was crouched, her head bent low over the creature's long, slender neck.

The girl hissed as she approached and Alice wisely chose to stop, waiting until the meal was done. Alice knew better than to disturb her, knew better than to approach when she was so new and so hungry, and it took only a moment for those defences to settle, for the girl to slip back into her ease. She did not turn her back to Alice— indeed, though she stood quite still and unassuming, Bella hardly took her eyes off of her— but she finished her feast with relish. She did not know her own strength. She did not understand the delicacy of the kill. Her hands were bloody, dripping great, fat drops onto her shirt, and only when she'd drained the beast, falling back with a thump on her backside in the dirt, did she seem to notice this at all. Alice saw the swallow, the way her throat bobbed as she came down from the high, and when she saw her hands, and then the dead animal before her, Bella rose like a shot and stared, wild-eyed and frenzied.

"I told you you'd get it," said Alice softly but the girl did not reply. "You did good, Bella. Just like you're supposed to."

Bella closed her eyes.

"I killed it."

Alice stared at her.

"I… oh my _god."_

When she dragged her fingers over her face, leaving sticky, red smears on her cheeks, Alice felt a renewed spark of pity.

"It'll get easier."

"I _killed_ it, Alice," she said again and this time, Alice heard the panic. "I didn't even _think. _I just…"

"I know."

"I've never killed anything before."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Alice and at this, she saw Bella's shoulders sag. "You've done nothing wrong."

"Neither did _he." _She tapped the antlers with her foot. "He didn't deserve that, Alice, and I couldn't even do it _cleanly…"_

"It'll come with practice."

"I don't want to _practice,"_ Bella spat. "It's _disgusting."_

"It's better than the alternative," Alice said and there was an edge to her voice, a warning. Bella's eyes flashed with anger but that anger dissolved almost as quickly as it had come, and Alice saw the weight of that truth lie heavy on her heart. She turned away, then, her hands clenched into fists, and when she hung her head Alice saw the defeat like lead, settling into every vein and pore.

"Better, by far, than what _could_ be," said Alice softly. "You'll grow to like it, eventually."

"No I won't."

"Give it time."

She didn't have anything to say to this.

"What do I _do_ with it, now that it's dead?" she asked and Alice sighed, glancing down at the carcass. "Where do we… _put_ it?"

"That depends," said Alice and when she brought a hand up to Bella's shoulder, the girl leaned back. Alice took this as a good sign. "If we're far enough into the woods, we can leave it where it is. There are always scavengers willing to clean up after us."

Her nose wrinkled, but she didn't argue.

"But we're too close to the house just now," Alice continued. "Too close to town. When that happens, we bury it."

"We don't have shovels."

Alice laughed.

"We don't need shovels, Bella," she chuckled. "Your hands are as good as any shovel could be. Come on. We'll work quickly and then maybe we can move further in and find something a little more… appetizing."

"I don't _want_ to, Alice."

"One elk will keep you for about half a day," Alice said_. "If _that, given how new you are. You don't want to lapse, Bella. The thirstier you are, the harder it becomes to keep yourself in check."

Bella frowned at her, disgusted.

"Come on," Alice said and though she smiled, it was hardly convincing. "Help me dig. It won't take us long."

They moved with a purpose as they shifted the earth together, moving deeper and deeper into the soil. She'd made a mess, it was true— it would take some time for her to learn her strength and her limits— but as they emerged, triumphant and filthy, Alice grinned at her and for just the barest, quickest moment, Bella grinned back.

"Toss it down when I tell you," she said, slipping back into the hole. "Just slide him in. I'll just get rid of that root, and then we can move on."

"Thanks, Alice."

"Don't sweat it."

Alice dipped back down beneath the earth. Later, when she would have time to make sense of it all, she would come to know that this was her mistake. She never should have left Bella alone. She never should have gone back into that hole without her. She never should have been so careless and she never should have been so trusting, but she would not understand this until much later and by then, it would be too late.

She was deep in the hole, her hands around that stubborn, strong root, her fingers caked with mud and her face filthy with grime. She did not hear as quickly as she should have. She did not sense the shifting wind. She did not notice, at first, how it moved from south to east, and she did not notice when that wind, blowing noisily through the canopy, made the world stand still.

There was a gust. There was a hiss. There was a frantic scrabble— the sound of feet on earth— and a quick, blurred movement overhead. Alice paused, taking this all in with sudden apprehension, and she lifted herself out from the hole, crouching at the edge to take in the changes.

Around her, the forest was untouched. The elk was still there, and so were the flowers and the ferns. The pile of dirt at her back had grown tall, the hole a little deeper, but where the girl had been standing, surveying the damage of her first hunt, there was nothing left at all but empty space and the imprint of two, perfect feet embossed in the spongy ground. She was not here, though she had been just a moment before. Alice heaved a sigh, taking in a deep, careless breath, and when she did she knew at once what had happened and she felt a stab of panic in her heart.

"Bella?"

Venom, slick and deadly, pooled in her mouth. She felt her eyes darken. She felt her muscles tense. She breathed in that air, catching the scent of ripe, human blood, and in the instant that she did, she caught Bella's scent too, long gone from here in a frantic chase towards the source.

"Bella!"

* * *

She was floating. She was sprinting. She was flying_. _She was _running._

Bella had never liked running. She had never felt the thrill of endorphins or the sweet rush of triumph after a sprint. She had never moved so fast before and certainly not like _this_, and as she forced her legs onward, darting like a bullet through the trees, she felt free. She felt _exhilarated._ She was excited and she was strong, she was powerful and she was fierce, and for just the briefest second— just the barest, most fleeting of moments— she was _happy._

She ran like she never knew it was possible to run, towards a smell that had no right to be so scrumptious. She could taste it in the air. It was burned into her mind like a brand. It was flowers, and fruit, and musk, and wine and she longed to take it in, to let it slip through her, heady and strong, until she was drunk. She wanted to breathe that scent. She wanted to _bathe _in it. She would find it, and she would take it, and there was not a soul in all the world that could keep her from it…

She didn't know what it was. She didn't know _why_ it was. She didn't know where it had come from, or where it was going, but she knew, in her heart, that she would find it, and when she did, she would _have_ it.

She ran through the trees, zagging wildly around trunks and stumps. She flew through the grass. She soared above the weeds. She crushed the flowers and ate the wind and she watched all the forest creatures scatter, and when she found them, rising like deer in a field along the verdant, winding trail, she felt a thick, bitter release of venom in her mouth.

They were there— they were _right there_— and she was _here_, waiting.

There were two of them, walking side by side down a path, and though Bella ran like a beast, they did not hear her. She lurked in the shadows. She hardly dared to move. These were the Sources, the very roots of her exaltation, and as they walked, they laughed, and as they laughed, she growled.

"How much longer?" asked the woman and the man tugged her hood up a little higher to keep away the drizzle. "It's going to…"

"Don't even say it!" the man shouted over her. "Don't jinx us please!"

"It's going to _rain!"_ the woman sang. "Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain…"

Above them, beyond the canopy of trees, Bella heard the prophecy fulfilled as the clouds began to drip and the man, throwing his head back, bellowed out a laugh.

She could see the pulse throbbing. She could smell it… she could _smell it…_

Oh god, she could smell it.

Before the man could speak, she sprang.

He didn't scream, that startled, frightened boy. He barely even gasped. She was on him like a leech, her teeth finding that pulsing, throbbing artery in the space of half a heartbeat, and she drank, so long and so deep that she felt his body slacken in her grip. The woman screamed for both of them, tearing off down the path on clumsy feet, and though Bella knew it was wrong, knew it was _deplorable,_ when she was finished with the man she took the woman, too.

Her hands were too strong. Her grip was too tight. Her teeth were too sharp, and her frenzy too wild, and then she could not see, could not _feel. _Taste was all she knew— the taste of that smell, and the smell of that taste— and then the woman was limp too, and there were no more sounds of laughter or life. It was quiet in the aftermath— so terribly, awfully quiet— and when she dropped that corpse, so broken that she could hardly tell what it had been, she felt a thrill of shock.

There was blood on her hands, and there was blood on the ground. There were gashes on the faces. There were savage, angry bites on arms and legs. There were bones that had been broken, and skin that had been torn, and they were still, oh so terribly, dreadfully still…

And between it all— between the blood, and the flesh, and the sinew, and the bone— she could see the terror on those faces, those ruined, broken, beaten faces. The air reeked of death. Her tongue was bitter with the taste of fear. She could feel the cracking of bone between her able, piercing fingers, could hear the deafening shriek of a life cut short… and then she could not look anymore, could not stand the sight. She could not look upon that face and see the havoc she had wrought, could not peer down into those dead, unseeing eyes to realize just what she had done. She could not look at either of them, could not make sense of the image that had burned itself forever in her memory, because there was blood on the floor and on her hands and in her hair…

There was blood on the floor. There had always been blood on the floor.

Like an elastic band that had been stretched too far and then let go again, there was something in her mind that snapped back into shape. She had not felt the stretch—or at least, she did not remember it— but she felt its return with a violent force that she did not expect. She felt its sting, how it smarted and stung, and all at once, with the feel of that blood between her fingers, she was pulled back because she finally, _finally_ remembered.

The blood on the floor. The sickly sweet smell of decay. The pink sinew beneath the skin, the ragged wounds torn into flesh and bone, the way the eyes had stared at her, unseeing and still, and the sound of her own scream, like a banshee in the night. So frightened. So _raw._ So loud that it had brought the neighbours running, and so long that it had stolen her voice away…

There had been a gravestone. There had been a cliff. There had been a terror—such an angry outpouring of violent, hopeless love— and then there had been a fall…

She could not cry— not like this, as she was. The tears would not come. They would never come again. She would never lose her voice, would never lose her mind, and she would never lose sight of him, the way he had been at the end. She would never lose the memory or this terrible, wrenching guilt because she was the monster and the monster was her and just surely as she had killed these poor creatures before her, so, too had she killed her father.

"No…" The word spilled from her like water, breaking her banks like a river in a flood. "No. No, no, no, no, no…"

The word did nothing. It gave her no consolation. Her ears were full of rushing wind. Her mouth, tracing over that word again and again, was full of empty pleas. She said it again, though it served her no purpose, and when it did not she began to shout. When Alice entered the clearing Bella could not see, and when those hands touched her, so gentle and sweet, she felt her skin writhing beneath the touch.

"Oh honey…"

"What did I do_,_ Alice?"

"I'm so sorry, Bella…" Her voice sounded far and so terribly, terribly sad. "I'm _so_ sorry…"

"What did I _do!?"_ The question erupted from her like a geyser. "What did I _do, _Alice?"

"It's not your fault…"

But Bella could not listen.

Her ears were rushing. Her mouth was dry. Her face felt hot, though she knew not how this could be, and her hands were shaking. By the time she had pulled herself away from Alice, away from the bloody mess she'd made amongst the trees, she was running, though she knew no goal or purpose. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't _care._

"Bella, wait!"

Bella did not listen.

When she ran—really, truly ran— she left Alice in the dust. She could feel the punishing rhythm of her feet in the dirt. She could taste blood on her tongue, lingering between her teeth. She did not dare use her nose—indeed, she hardly dared to _breathe_— but with each passing second and with each passing thought, she ran all the faster. The brush underfoot did not hinder her. The hills and valleys did not stop her. She vaulted a river—a feat which should have amazed and astounded her— with no more effort than she might give to a puddle, and by the time she realized just where she was headed she was there. It fell before her in a deathly, terrible plummet, and when she skittered to a halt just shy of the fragile, crumbling edge of the cliff, she felt the world come back to her with startling, terrible clarity.

She did not know how long she stood, glaring at the dark, frothing waves below. She did not know how long she stared into the surf, how long she crouched in the mist. She knew not when she was, or who, or how, or why but none of it mattered as she rose, her bare feet crunching on broken, splintered stone.

She remembered the fall— the sickening jolt of the plunge and the icy caress of the sea. She remembered the voice, so faint and so sad, that had told of her guilt and her love. She remembered how the waves had felt when they had taken her, how she had sunk like a stone and then bobbed up for air, and how, even as the riptide dragged her further out into the unforgiving water she had cried, and when she had cried, the world had gone dark.

She had killed him. She had _killed_ him. She had killed him, that father who had given her nothing but love, because she had brought the danger to him. He had been home because of her. Home because he'd been _up_ with her. Home because she had cried, and home because she had screamed, and home because he had held her, trembling in the dark, until the nightmare had faded and she could breathe again. He had kissed her, impulsive and sweet, and the warmth had soothed her, and she had heard that voice again on the cliff, untouched by the violence and the ruin. She thought that if she stopped—if she really, truly stopped to _listen_—she would hear it again now.

_I love you too._

"Bella?"

It was _Him_, she knew, and she felt the very marrow of her bones ignite. _Him._ That _Him _with a capital H who was the hammer and the glue. He had completed her. He had smoothed her edges. He had held her, and he had loved her, and he had ruined her, and he had killed her, and she could hear him now as he came through the trees. She could hear the footsteps, light as air on wet leaves, and she could _feel_ him as he moved like quicksilver through the gloom. He was fast, she knew, and he was focused, and when she felt his hand on her— only the lightest brush of fingers on her cool, hard shoulder— she slipped away like an eel and stood, tall and poised, precariously close to the edge of the cliff.

"Come away, Bella, please," he said. "It'll do you no good."

She hissed, pressing her eyes shut.

"It's not your fault…"

"It's _all_ my fault."

"It's natural…"

"It's _barbaric." _The word left her like a curse and he caught it, holding it close. "It's _brutal. _I don't even…"

The words died, just like everything else, and she moved a little closer to the edge.

"It's instinct," he said and his voice was soft, kind. "It takes time to master it."

"I don't have time."

"You have nothing but time," he replied and at this she felt her heart sink again. "All the time in the world, love."

"I don't want it."

"I know."

"I didn't _ask_ for it."

"I_ know."_

"I _told_ you…"

"I _know,_ Bella." His voice was strained. "I _know. _I'm sorry…"

"Don't."

"Come home."

"I can't."

"You can."

"I _won't."_

His breath was sharp, as if she'd twisted a knife between his ribs and when he reached out a hand again, she pulled away. There was worry in his voice, though she could not tell if it was _for_ her or _because _of her, but still, she did not look. She could not turn around, could not bring herself to face him there, so steady and so strong, and so when she saw the briefest movement of a hand at her back, reaching out to brush its fingers down her arm in consolation, she ducked away. This hurt him too, she knew, but she did not relent, and when he tried again to soothe her, to _placate,_ she slapped his hand away with a vicious strike.

"Don't touch me," she said and the words were harsher, crueller than she meant them to be. _"Please_ don't touch me."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry."

He fell silent.

"Just… don't." The words fell from her like a sigh. "Don't touch me, and don't be sorry…"

"What would you have me do, then?"

"Just leave me be."

"Not like this, Bella," he whispered and there was an ache there, a sorrow. "I won't leave you here alone, like this."

"Like what?" Her voice was cold. "What am I like, Edward?"

"Frightened," he said and the truth of it annoyed her. "Alone. Worried, scared, sad, upset… Please come home."

"I can't come home."

"Why not?"

Like a thousand birds trapped inside a cage, Bella felt the wings beating in her very core. It made her nervous and it made her sick, and when she imagined it— imagined herself returning to that house with the blood of innocents on her hands— she could hardly stand it. She could not look them in the face— not Esme and most certainly not Carlisle— and she could not tell them what she had done. She could not look that kind compassion in the eye and tell of her violence, of her _cruelty_ in taking a life, of her complete and utter loss of control. They could not see her like this, not after everything they'd done for her, and she would not be their shame. They had given her nothing but kindness, had done nothing but keep her, and love her, and care for her, and she had repaid that generosity with brutality, their goodness with chaos. She could hardly remember what had come before— could not name the days, or the actions, or the words— but she felt that kindness in her heart, and that same heart splintered when she recalled the vivid scarlet of the blood, the piercing, lethal screams she'd so cruelly snuffed out.

She turned instead towards the cliff.

"I don't want this, Edward," she said and though he was still and calm, there was a spark of fear in the way he sighed. "I don't _want_ it, Edward…"

"I'm sorry."

"I just…"

"It won't hurt you." He was close to her now, _too_ close. "You can jump a thousand times, Bella, and it won't ever hurt you."

"I don't care…"

"I think you _do."_

She seethed, her fury rising again.

"You don't know _anything."_

"I know that it won't do what you want it to," he said. "I know that you'll be as furious down there as you are up here. As _sick_ down there. This won't help."

"I don't _want_ it!"

"The cliff can't hurt you," he said again, and though she longed to slap him, to _bite,_ she forced herself to stare out into those steely grey waves. She would not look at him—not now that she had gone so long without it— and her eyes narrowed on a lonely, distant island instead. Perhaps that was _the_ island, the one she'd landed on in a time so far removed from the present that it felt like eons, and she wondered how long it would take her to float back out again…

"I told you once before," Edward said, taking in her silence with a shiver. "A long time ago. I _envied_ you, Bella. I envied your transience, your _potential. _We cannot self-destruct— not without help— and I'm sorry, but none of us would ever allow it to come to that."

This speech was ludicrous to her, though she could feel the truth in her gut. There was no fear anymore— not of the waves, and not of the fall— though by all rights there _should_ be. There should be fear. There should be absolute, gut-roiling _terror. _She should be afraid of the pain, and the anguish, and whatever would come after, but she was not, and deep down she knew why. The rocks could not break her, could not dash her to pieces and scatter her in the current. The water could not drown her. The sea could not claim her and there would be no sweet release, and this made her furious and sad. Her disappointment had a taste, like a bitter, rotten seed and she swallowed it down as best she could, but when her mouth opened again to speak, she felt the words fall heavy like anchors.

"I don't care."

"It won't help," he said again. "None of this will help, Bella… please. Let me _help_ you."

"I don't _care."_

"No one is upset with you," he went on, as if she could be bargained with. "Not for _this_. It's not your fault, love, and no one will be angry…"

"_I'm _angry!" Her shout split the air like thunder. "_I'm_ angry, Edward! I'm _furious_, and I'm _disgusted!"_

"You didn't mean to do it…"

"Oh but I _did," _she hissed. "I did it, Edward, and I _liked _it. I _knew_ it was wrong. I knew it was_ cruel._ I knew all of it and I did it anyways, like I was no better than an _animal."_

"You're not an animal."

"What am I, then?" she demanded and as she did, she could not stand it another moment. She wheeled around, coming nose-to-nose with that handsome, familiar face, and though she tried not to, she breathed him in. He was warmer now than she remembered, and somehow softer and sweeter, but all of this served only to pique her and she backed away, her heels hanging off the edge of the rock.

"You are yourself, Bella," he said. "As we all are. It's not _what_ we are that matters… it's who we choose to be."

"I chose to be _that,"_ she returned and he sighed, his fingers twitching out to touch her again, hovering barely an inch above her cheek. "I chose _that,_ Edward, and I can't take it back."

"We all make mistakes."

"It wasn't a mistake."

He stared at her.

"I meant it. Oh god, I _meant _it… I_ wanted_ it, and I'm sorry that I did, but I'm going to want it again."

"Yes."

"And I'll take it again."

"Not if you don't want to."

"I _will_ want to."

"It takes time, love. Time to get it right…"

"_You_ were right, Edward."

He stared at her, betraying nothing.

"You were always right. I was a fool and I was naive, but you were always, _always_ right."

"Bella…"

"We are _monsters,"_ she hissed and as if she had slapped him, he took a step back. "We are _nothing._ I'm only sorry I ever doubted you."

"Come home, Bella, please," he said and she laughed, hard and cold. "Please. Come home with me. Let me explain…"

"No."

"_Please,_ love…"

"_No."_

"It won't do you any good…"

"I don't care!"

"Carlisle will be here soon."

"I don't _care!"_

And when she turned, swivelling around on the balls of her feet, she felt the rock begin to crumble. Her feet dug in, sending a cascade of stones skittering down the embankment, and when she felt the earth begin to move, she held her breath.

"Bella please…"

When she leapt, leaving the cliff behind to tumble through empty space, she felt nothing. No wings. No fear. No terror, no regret, no love…

… nothing but the cold, empty void of the great, black sea.

**A/N: Hello again! As you all are undoubtedly aware, this whole story is my rebuttal to what I consider to be huge gaps and failings in the original story. Of course I've taken some liberties with the timeline and storyline, but as I've said before I absolutely despise how the original story refuses to follow through. The Change is held up as a terrible trauma, yet somehow canon Bella manages to avoid all the unpleasant bits. This chapter delves a little deeper into what I think the real consequences would be. Literally everyone besides Carlisle (and maybe Rosalie, to a point) had a rough start and slipped up. I think Bella should have as well.**

**Also, for those who might be a little confused:**

**When I sat down and thought about what I thought the Change should look like, I really felt inspired (if that's the right word) by the idea of human memory loss. In my understanding, memory loss would happen for two reasons. One, because human senses are so dull that old memories are dull in comparison to new ones and two, the change is violent and might literally change brain chemistry and structure. When Bella woke, she had no idea where or who she was (as was hinted at the end of last chapter). She remembered a little bit with Carlisle. We saw some more memories return when she was in the bedroom, but the real catalyst was the violence in the forest which led to memories of Charlie. Her human memories are not gone forever, only buried and muddled, and while I think they won't be as strong as before, they certainly haven't just vanished.**

**When Bella ran off to chase the hikers, Alice was too far behind to catch her. The hunt, in my view, is quick (even if it reads a little long) so by the time Alice found her the damage was done. When Bella ran from her a second time she wisely chose to make a phone call before she made chase, and though we didn't see him at the beginning of the chapter, I certainly wanted Edward to appear at the end. **

**Those of you who follow me on Twitter know that I recently revamped the outline for this story to flesh out the ending a little more. If that outline sticks (which, let's be honest, happens only about half the time when I get going), we'll have four chapters left after this one. I could keep it going on forever if I tried, but I think I've found a good natural stopping point in my outline so we'll aim for that and see how it goes.**

**Also, thank you for sticking with me. In the interim I've written a few chapters of The Island, and in the notes for those chapters I explained that while I love to write, I also have ANXIETY. It sucks, it stifles my creativity, and it makes me worry about all kinds of crap I can't control, but whenever I'm able I'll be putting out new chapters, so please keep an eye out.**


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